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SUMMER   GLEANINGS: 


SKETCHES  AND  INCIDENTS 


A    PASTOR'S    VACATION. 


BY  JOHN  TODD,  D.  D. 


COLLECTED   AND  ARRANGED  BY  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


NORTHAMPTON: 

HOPKINS,     BRIDGMAN,    &    CO. 
1852. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

HOPKINS,  BRIDGMAN,  &  Co., 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND   PRINTED   BY 

METCALF     AND     COMPANY 

PRINTERS   TO  THB  UNIVERSITY. 


StadC* 

AnflfBC 

s 

OSS' 


DEDICATION. 

TO  MY  GRANDMOTHEE,  MRS.  LUCY  C.  BRACE. 


You  know,  when  father  goes  away  on  his  summer  va- 
cations, how  we  mourn,  how  we  dread  those  long  weeks 
when  we  can  hear  no  tidings  from  the  wilderness,  and  how 
we  fear  lest  he  will  be  lost  in  those  primeval  forests.  But 
when,  strengthened  and  invigorated,  he  is  led  back  by  the 
kind  hand  of  God,  who  watches  and  guides  his  children 
in  the  solitude  of  those  wild  mountains  as  well  as  in  the 
crowded  city,  we  rejoice  in  his  safety,  and  enjoy  with  him 
the  remembrance  of  these  excursions. 

I  have  thought  that  many  might  be  glad  to  see  the  few 
fragments  of  these  stories  of  his  summer  rambles  that  I 
have,  been  able  to  gather  together,  and  I  have  wished,  if 
possible,  to  let  others  share  in  the  pleasure  we  have  so  often 
felt.  And  so  I  wish  to  dedicate  this  little  book  to  you,  as 
one  who  has  ever  sympathized  with  us  in  our  joys  and  sor- 
rows, and  who  has  ever  treasured  so  deeply  in  her  heart 
the  dealings  of  God's  providence  with  her  children. 

We  read  of  a  poor  mother  who,  in  widowhood  and  pov- 


2054490 


IV  DEDICATION. 

erty,  among  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  was  called  to  bury 
her  two  sons.  Very  bitter  was  her  cup  of  grief.  Yet, 
though  she  could  never  forget  the  dead,  she  could  praise 
God  for  the  living;  and  did  she  not  find  herself  blessed, 
more  than  words  can  tell,  in  the  love  and  care  of  her 
daughter-in-law  Ruth?  And  cannot  you  rejoice,  that, 
though  much  of  your  treasure  is  in  heaven,  you  have  still 
sons,  who,  though  all  do  not  bear  your  name,  prove  your 
daily  comfort  ? 

And  when  your  work  of  life  is  done,  —  when  you  and  all 
your  loved  ones  shall  be  gathered  to  the  dead,  —  that  you 
may  appear  before  the  throne  of  God,  with  all  your  chil- 
dren and  descendants,  and  with  humble  rejoicing  may  say, 
"  Here  am  I  and  the  children  Thou  hast  given  me,"  is  the 
earnest  prayer  of 

YOUR  LOVING  GRANDDAUGHTER. 


CONTENTS. 


PA  OB 

THE   YOUNG   LAWYER'S   FIRST   CASE  ....          9 

THE   LITTLE   PORTRAIT  .  .  .  .      >    .  .  28 

THE   KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE  .  .  .  .  .32 

HELEM   AND    SHELESH 50 

THE   DEPARTURE,    OR  INCIDENTS   IN   THE  REVOLUTION- 
ARY  WAR 56 

THE   RETURN,   OR   INCIDENTS    IN    THE    REVOLUTIONARY 

WAR 77 

MY  FIRST  FUNERAL 97 

THE  POOR  STUDENT 103 

MOUNT  KATAHDIN 121 

THE  KING  COMING  BACK? 133 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WAR ,  .  139 

TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES 159 

THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT,  OR  REMINISCENCES  OF 

OLD  DR.  MICAH  ASHER 179 

ZIPPORAH 219 

INCIDENTS  IN  A  JOURNEY  FOR  HEALTH. 

GOING  NORTH 230 

VALLEY  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE       ....      237 

1   * 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


VALLEY    OF   THE   DU    LOUP  .          V  :      r> 

HEAD   WATEBS   OP   THE   PENOBSCOT       . 
TWO   THIRDS   HIS   VALUE  .  .      •      .  .  '.Xj 

OLD   SABAEL, —  THE   INDIAN   OF  A   CENTUBY 
MEN'S   EIGHTS     .  .  .  .*.''«       V « 

DEDICATION   OF   OUB  NEW  CEMETEEY 
DISCOVEEIE8  NEW  AND  INTEBE8TISG      . 


.  243 

249 

.  255 


.  267 

272 

.  277 


SUMMEE   GLEANINGS. 


THE  YOUNG  LAWYER'S  FIRST  CASE. 


IN  one  of  those  long,  low,  one-story,  unpainted 
houses  which  succeeded  the  log-houses  in  Vermont 
as  the  second  generation  of  human  habitations,  lay  a 
sick  woman.  She  knew,  and  all  her  friends  knew, 
that  her  days  were  numbered,  and  that  when  she 
left  that  room  it  would  be  in  her  winding-sheet  for 
the  grave.  Yet  her  face  and  her  spirit  were  calm, 
and  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  those  of  the  dying 
swan,  were  sweeter  than  those  of  life.  She  had 
taken  an  affectionate  leave  of  all  her  children,  in 
faith  and  hope,  save  one,  —  her  eldest  son,  —  a  moth- 
er's boy  and  a  mother's  pride.  By  great  economy 
and  unwearied  industry  this  son  had  been  sent  to 
college.  He  was  a  mild,  inoffensive,  pale-faced  one ; 
but  the  bright  eye  did  not  belie  the  spirit  that  dwelt 
in  a  casket  so  frail.  He  had  been  sent  for,  but  did 
not  reach  home  till  the  day  before  his  mother's  death. 
As  soon  as  she  knew  of  his  coming,  she  immediately 
had  him  called  to  her  room,  and  left  alone  with  her. 
Long  and  tearful  was  their  conversation.  Sweet 


10  SUMMER   GLEANINGS.- 

and  tender  was  this  last  interview  between  a  mother 
and  son  who  had  never  lacked  any  degree  of  confi- 
dence on  either  side. 

"You  know,  my  son,  that  it  has  always  been  my 
most  earnest  wish  and  prayer  that  you  should  be  a 
preacher  of  the  Gospel,  and  thus  a  benefactor  to  the 
souls  of  men.  In  choosing  the  law,  you  are  aware, 
you  have  greatly  disappointed  these  hopes." 

"  I  know  it,  dear  mother ;  and  I  have  done  it,  not 
because  I  like  the  law  so  much,  but  because  I  dare 
not  undertake  a  work  so  sacred  as  the  ministry, 
conscious  as  I  am  that  I  am  not  qualified  in  mind, 
or  body,  or  spirit,  for  the  work.  If  I  dared  do 
it,  for  your  sake,  if  for  no  other  reason,  I  would 
do  it." 

"In  God's  time,  my  dear  son,  in  God's  time,  I 
trust  you  will.  I  neither  urge  it,  nor  blame  you. 
But  promise  me  now,  that  you  will  never  undertake 
any  cause  which  you  think  is  unjust,  and  that  you 
will  never  aid  in  screening  wrong  from  coming  to 
light  and  punishment." 

The  son  said  something  about  every  man's  having 
the  right  to  have  his  case  presented  in  the  best  light 
he  could. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I  know 
that,  if  a  man  has  violated  the  laws  of  God  and  man, 
he  has  no  moral  right  to  be  shielded  from  punish- 
ment. If  he  has  confessions  and  explanations  to 
offer,  it  is  well.  But  for  you  to  take  his  side,  and, 
for  money,  to  shield  him  from  the  laws,  seems  to  me 
no  better  than  if,  for  money,  you  concealed  him  from 


THE    YOUNG   LAWYER.  11 

the  officers  of  justice,  under  the  plea  that  every  man 
had  a  right  to  get  clear  of  the  law  if  he  could.  But 
I  am  weak  and  cannot  talk,  my  son  ;  and  yet  if  you. 
will  give  me  the  solemn  promise,  it  seems  as  if  I 
should  die  easier.  But  you  must  do  as  you  think 
best." 

The  young  man  bent  over  his  dying  mother,  and, 
with  much  emotion,  gave  her  the  solemn  promise 
which  she  desired.  Tender  was  the  last  kiss  she 
gave  him,  warm  the  thanks  which  she  expressed,  and 
sweet  the  smile  which  she  wore,  and  which  was  left 
on  her  countenance  after  her  spirit  had  gone  up  to 
meet  the  smiles  of  the  Redeemer. 

Some  months  after  the  death  of  his  mother,  the 
young  man  left  the  shadows  of  the  Green  Mountains, 
and  toward  a  more  sunny  region,  in  a  large  and 
thrifty  village,  he  opened  his  office ;  the  sign  gave 
his  name,  and  under  it,  the  words,  "Attorney  at 
Law."  There  he  was  found  early  and  late,  his  office 
clean  and  neat,  and  his  few  books  studied  over  and 
over  again,  but  no  business.  The  first  fee  which  he 
took  was  for  writing  a  short  letter  for  his  black  wood- 
sawyer,  and  for  that  he  conscientiously  charged  only 
a  single  sixpence  !  People  spoke  well  of  him,  and 
admired  the  young  man,  but  still  no  business  came. 
After  waiting  till  "hope  deferred  made  the  heart 
sick,"  one  bright  morning  a  coarse-looking,  knock- 
down sort  of  a  young  man  was  seen  making  toward 
the  office.  How  the  heart  of  the  young  lawyer 
bounded  at  the  sight  of  his  first  client !  What  suc- 
cess, and  cases,  and  fees  danced  in  the  vision  in  a 
moment ! 


12  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Are  you  the  lawyer  ? "  said  the  man,  hastily 
taking  off  his  hat. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  's  my  business.  What  can  I  do  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Why,  something  of  a  job,  I  reckon.  The" fact  is 
I  have  got  into  a  little  trouble,  and  want  a  bit  of 
help."  And  he  took  out  a  five-dollar  bill,  and  laid 
it  on  the  table. 

The  young  lawyer  made  no  motion  toward  taking  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  it  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  don't 
call  it  pay,  but  to  begin  with,  —  a  kind  of  wedge, — 
what  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"  Retention-fee,  I  presume  you  mean." 

"  Just  so,  and  by  your  taking  it,  you  are  my  law- 
yer. So  take  it." 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,  if  you  please.  State  your  case, 
and  then  I  will  tell  you  whether  or  not  I  take  the  re- 
tention-fee." 

The  coarse  fellow  stared. 

"  Why,  mister,  the  case  is  simply  this.  Last  spring 
I  was  doing  a  little  business  by  way  of  selling  meat. 
So  I  bought  a  yoke  of  oxen  of  old  Major  Farnsworth. 
I  was  to  have  them  for  one  hundred  dollars." 

"  Very  well,  —  what  became  of  the  oxen  ?  " 

"  Butchered  and  sold  out,  to  be  sure." 

"  By  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  where  's  the  trouble  ?  " 

*'  Why,  they  say  that,  as  I  only  gave  my  note  for 
them,  I  need  not  pay  it,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me 
to  get  clear  of  it." 

"  How  do  you  expect  me  to  do  it  ?  " 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  13 

"  Plain  as  day,  man ;  just  say,  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  this  young  man  was  not  of  age  when  he  gave 
Major  Farnsworth  the  note,  and  therefore,  in  law,  the 
note  is  good  for  nothing,  —  that  's  all !  " 

"  And  was  it  really  so  ?  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  How  came  Major  Farnsworth  to  let  you  have  the 
oxen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  godly  old  man  never  suspected  that  I 
was  under  age." 

"  What  did  you  get  for  the  oxen  in  selling  them 
out  ?  " 

"  Why,  somewhere  between  one  hundred  and  thir- 
ty and  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars,  —  they  were 
noble  fellows ! " 

"  And  so  you  want  me  to  help  you  cheat  that  hon- 
est old  man  out  of  those  oxen,  simply  because  the 
law,  this  human  imperfection,  gives  you  the  oppor- 
tunity to  do  it !  No,  sir ;  put  up  your  retention-fee. 
I  promised  my  dying  mother  never  to  do  such  a 
thing,  and  I  will  starve  first.  And  as  for  you,  if  I 
wanted  to  help  you  to  go  to  the  State's  prison,  I  could 
take  no  course  so  sure  as  to  do  what  you  offer  to  pay 
me  for  doing.  And,  depend  upon  it,  the  lawyer  who 
does  help  you  will  be  your  worst  enemy.  Plead 
minority  !  No  ;  go,  sir,  and  pay  for  your  oxen  hon- 
estly, and  live  and  act  on  the  principle,  that,  let  what 
will  come,  you  will  be  an  honest  man." 

The  coarse  young  man  snatched  up  his  bill,  and, 
muttering  something  about  seeing  Squire  Snapall, 
left  the  office. 


14  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

So  he  lost  his  first  fee  and  his  first  case.  He  felt 
poor  and  discouraged,  when  left  alone  in  the  office  ; 
but  he  felt  that  he  had  done  right.  His  mother's 
voice  seemed  to  whisper,  "  Right,  my  son,  right." 
The  next  day  lie  was  in  old  Major  Farnsworth's,  and 
saw  a  pile  of  bills  lying  upon  the  table.  The  good 
old  man  said  he  had  just  received  them  for  a  debt 
which  he  expected  to  lose,  but  a  kind  Providence  had 
interposed  in  his  behalf.  The  young  lawyer  said 
nothing,  but  his  mother's  voice  seemed  to  come 
again,  "  Right,  my  son,  right." 

Some  days  after  this  a  man  called  in  the  evening, 
and  asked  the  young  man  to  defend  him  in  a  trial 
just  coming  on. 

"  What  is  your  case  ?  " 

"  They  accuse  me  of  stealing  a  bee-hive." 

"  A  bee-hive  !  Surely  that  could  not  be  worth 
much ! " 

"  No,  but  the  bees  and  the  honey  were  in  it." 

"  Then  you  really  did  steal  it?  " 

"  'Squire,  are  you  alone  here,  —  nobody  to  hear  ?  " 

"  I  am  all  alone." 

"  Are  you  bound  by  oath  to  keep  the  secrets  of 
your  clients  ? " 

"  Certainly  I  am." 

"  Well,  then,  'twixt  you  and  me,  I  did  have  a  dab 
at  that  honey.  There  was  more  than  seventy  pounds ! 
But  you  can  clear  me." 

"  How  can  I  ?  " 

"  Why,  Ned  Hazen  has  agreed  to  swear  that  I 
was  with  him  fishing  at  Squanicook  Pond  that  night." 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  15 

"  So,  by  perjury,  you  hope  to  escape  punishment. 
What  can  you  afford  to  pay  a  lawyer  who  will  do 
his  best  ?  " 

The  man  took  out  twenty  dollars.  It  was  a  great 
temptation.  The  young  lawyer  staggered  for  a  mo- 
ment, —  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  No,  sir,  I  will  not  undertake  your  case.  I  will 
not  try  to  shield  a  man  whom  I  know  to  be  a  villain 
from  the  punishment  which  he  deserves.  I  will 
starve  first." 

The  man  with  an  oath  bolted  out  of  the  office,  and 
made  his  way  to  Snapall's  office.  The  poor  lawyer 
sat  down  alone,  and  could  have  cried.  But  a  few 
dollars  were  left  to  him  in  the  world,  and  what  to  do 
when  they  were  gone  he  knew  not.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  flush  and  burning  of  the  face  was  gone,  as 
if  he  had  been  fanned  by  the  wings  of  angels,  and 
again  he  heard  his  own  mother's  voice,  "  Right,  my 
son,  right." 

Days  and  even  weeks  passed  away,  and  no  new 
client  made  his  appearance.  The  story  of  his  hav- 
ing refused  to  take  fees  and  defend  his  clients  got 
abroad,  and  many  were  the  gibes  concerning  his 
folly.  Lawyer  Snapall  declared  that  such  weakness 
would  ruin  any  man.  The  multitude  went  against 
the  young  advocate.  But  a  few  noted  and  remem- 
bered it  in  his  favor. 

On  entering  his  office  one  afternoon,  the  young 
man  found  a  note  lying  on  his  table.  It  read  thus  : — 

"  Mrs.  Henshaw's  compliments  to  Mr.  Loudon, 
and  requests,  if  it  be  not  too  much  trouble,  that  he 


16  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

would  call  on  her  at  his  earliest  convenience,  as  she 
wishes  to  consult  him  professionally,  and  with  as 
much  privacy  as  may  be. 
"  Eose  Cottage,  June  25th." 

How  his  hand  trembled  while  he  read  the  note ! 
It  might  lead  to  business,  —  it  might  be  the  first 
fruits  of  an  honorable  life.  But  who  is  Mrs.  Hen- 
shaw  ?  He  only  knew  that  a  friend  by  that  name, 
a  widow  lady,  had  lately  arrived  on  a  visit  to  the 
family  who  resided  in  that  cottage.  "  At  his  earliest 
convenience."  If  he  should  go  at  once,  would  it 
not  look  as  if  he  were  at  perfect  leisure  ?  If  he  de- 
layed, would  it  not  be  a  dishonesty  which  he  had 
vowed  never  to  practise  ?  He  whistled  a  moment, 
took  up  his  hat,  and  went  toward  "  Rose  Cottage." 
On  reaching  the  house,  he  was  received  by  a  young 
lady  of  modest,  yet  easy  manner.  He  inquired  for 
Mrs.  Henshaw,  and  the  young  lady  said, 

"  My  mother  is  not  well,  but  I  will  call  her. 
Shall  I  carry  your  name,  sir  ?  " 

"  Loudon,  if  you  please." 

The  young  lady  cast  a  searching,  surprised  look 
at  him,  and  left  the  room.  In  a  few  moments  the 
mother,  a  graceful,  well-bred  lady  of  about  forty, 
entered  the  room.  She  had  a  mild,  sweet  face,  and 
a  look  that  brought  his  own  mother  so  vividly  to 
mind,  that  the  tears  almost  started  in  his  eyes. 
For  some  reason,  Mrs.  Henshaw  appeared  embar- 
rassed. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Loudon,  the  lawyer,  I  suppose,"  said 
she. 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  17 

"  At  your  service,  madam." 

"  Is  there  any  other  gentleman  at  the  bar  of  your 
name,  sir  ?  " 

"  None  that  I  know  of.  In  what  way  can  you 
command  my  services,  madam  ?  " 

The  lady  colored.  "  I  am  afraid,  sir,  there  is 
some  mistake.  I  need  a  lawyer  to  look  at  a  diffi- 
cult case,  a  man  of  principle,  whom  I  can  trust. 
You  were  mentioned  to  me,  —  but  —  I  expected  to 
see  an  older  man." 

"  If  you  will  admit  me,"  said  Loudon,  who  began 
to  grow  nervous  in  his  turn,  "  so  far  into  your  confi- 
dence as  to  state  the  case,  I  think  I  can  promise  not 
to  do  any  hurt,  even  if  I  do  no  good.  And  if,  on 
the  whole,  you  think  it  best  to  commit  it  to  older  and 
abler  hands,  I  will  charge  you  nothing,  and  engage 
not  to  be  offended." 

The  mother  looked  at  the  daughter,  and  saw  on 
her  face  the  look  of  confidence  and  hope. 

The  whole  afternoon  was  spent  in  going  over  the 
case,  examining  papers,  and  the  like.  As  they 
went  along,  Loudon  took  notes  and  memoranda  with 
his  pencil. 

"  He  will  never  do,"  thought  Mrs.  Henshaw. 
"  He  takes  every  thing  for  granted  and  unques- 
tioned ;  and  though  I  don't  design  to  mislead  him, 
yet  it  seems  to  me  as  if  he  would  take  the  moon  to 
be  green  cheese,  were  I  to  tell' him  so.  He  will 
never  do."  And  she  felt  that  she  had  wasted  her 
time  and  strength.  How  great  then  was  her  sur- 
prise when  Loudon  pushed  aside  the  bundles  of 


18  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

papers,  and,  looking  at  his  notes,  again  went  over 
the  whole  ground,  sifting  and  scanning  every  point, 
weighing  every  circumstance,  pointing  out  the  weak 
places,  tearing  and  throwing  off  the  rubbish,  discard- 
ing what  was  irrelevant,  and  placing  the  whole  affair 
in  a  light  more  luminous  and  clear  than  even  she 
had  ever  seen  it  before.  Her  color  came  and  went 
as  her  hopes  rose  and  fell.  After  he  had  laid  it 
open  to  her,  he  added,  with  unconscious  dignity, 

"  Mrs.  Henshaw,  I  think  yours  is  a  cause  of  right 
and  justice.  Even  if  there  should  be  a  failure  to 
convince  a  jury  so  that  law  would  decide  in  your 
favor,  there  are  so  many  circumstantial  proofs,  that 
I  have  no  doubt  that  justice  will  be  with  you.  If 
you  please  to  intrust  it  to  me,  I  will  do  the  best  I 
can,  and  am  quite  sure  I  shall  work  harder  than  if  I 
were  on  the  opposite  side." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Mary  ?  "  said  the  mother  to 
the  daughter.  "  You  are  as  much  interested  as  I. 
Shall  we  commit  it  to  Mr.  Loudon  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  best  judge,  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
he  understands  the  case  better  than  any  one  you 
have  ever  talked  with." 

Loudon  thanked  Mary  with  his  eyes,  but,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  hers  were  cast  down  upon  the  fig- 
ures of  the  carpet,  and  she  did  not  see  him. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Loudon,  we  will  commit  the  whole 
affair  to  you.  If  you  succeed,  we  shall  be  able  to 
reward  you ;  and  if  you  do  not,  we  shall  be  no 
poorer  than  we  have  been." 

For  weeks  and  months  Loudon  studied  his  case. 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  19 

He  was  often  at  Rose  Cottage  to  ask  questions  on 
some  point  not  quite  so  clear.  He  found  they  were 
very  agreeable,  —  the  mother  and  the  daughter, — 
aside  from  the  lawsuit,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  he 
did  not  find  occasion  to  ask  questions  oftener  than 
he  would  have  done,  had  it  been  otherwise. 

The  case  briefly  was  this.  Mr.  Henshaw  had 
been  an  active,  intelligent,  and  high-minded  man  of 
business.  He  had  dealt  in  iron,  had  large  furnaces 
at  different  places,  and  did  business  on  an  average 
with  three  hundred  different  people  a  day.  Among 
others,  he  had  dealings  with  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Brown,  —  a  plausible,  keen,  and,  as  many  thought, 
an  unprincipled  man.  But  Henshaw,  without  guile 
himself,  put  all  confidence  in  him.  In  a  reverse  of 
times,  —  such  as  occur  once  in  about  ten  years,  let 
who  will  be  President,  ->-  their  affairs  became  em- 
barrassed and  terribly  perplexed.  In  order  to  extri- 
cate his  business,  it  was  necessary  for  Henshaw  to 
go  to  a  distant  part  of  the  land,  in  company  with 
Brown.  There  he  died,  —  leaving  a  young  widow, 
and  an  only  child,  Mary,  then  about  ten  years  old, 
and  his  business  in  a  condition  as  bad  as  need  be. 
By  the  kindness  of  the  creditors,  their  beautiful 
home,  called  Elm  Glen,  was' left  to  Mrs.  Henshaw 
and  her  little  girl,  while  the  rest  of  the  property 
went  to  pay  the  debts.  The  widow  and  her  orphan 
kept  the  place  of  their  joys  and  hopes  in  perfect  or- 
der, and  every  body  said  "  it  did  n't  look  like  a 
widow's  house."  But  within  four  years  of  the  death 
of  Mr.  Henshaw,  Brown  returned.  He  had  been 


20  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

detained  by  broken  limbs  and  business,  he  said. 
What  was  the  amazement  of  the  widow  to  have  him 
set  up  a  claim  for  Elm  Glen,  as  his  property !  He 
had  loaned  Mr.  Henshaw  money,  he  said,  —  he  had 
been  with  him  in  sickness  and  in  death,  —  and  the 
high-minded  Henshaw  had  made  his  will  on  his 
death-bed,  and  bequeathed  Elm  Glen  to  Brown  as 
a  payment  for  debts.  The  will  was  duly  drawn, 
signed  with  Mr.  Henshaw's  own  signature,  and  also 
by  two  competent  witnesses.  Every  one  was  aston- 
ished at  the  claim,  —  at  the  will,  —  at  e'very  thing 
pertaining  to  it.  It  was  contested  in  court,  but  the 
evidence  was  clear,  and  the  will  was  set  up  and  es- 
tablished. Poor  Mrs.  Henshaw  was  stripped  of  ev- 
ery thing.  With  a  sad  heart  she  packed  up  her  sim- 
ple wardrobe,  and,  taking  her  child,  left  the  village, 
and  went  to  a  distant  State  to  teach  schooll  For  six 
years  she  had  been  absent,  and  for  six  years  had 
Brown  enjoyed  Elm  Glen.  No,  not  enjoyed  it,  for 
he  enjoyed  nothing.  He  lived  in  it ;  but  the  hag- 
gard look,  the  frequent  appeal  to  the  bottle,  the 
jealous  feelings  which  were  ever  uppermost,  and  his 
coarse,  profane  conversation,  showed  that  he  was 
wretched.  People  talked,  too,  of  his  lonely  hours, 
his  starting  up  in  his  sleep,  his  clenching  his  fist  in 
his  dreams,  and  defying  "  all  hell "  to  prove  it,  and 
the  like. 

Suddenly  and  privately,  Mrs.  Henshaw  returned 
to  her  once  loved  village.  She  had  obtained  some 
information  by  which  she  hoped  to  bring  truth  to 
light,  for  she  had  never  believed  that  her  husband 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  21 

ever  made  such  a  will  in  favor  of  Brown.  To  prove 
that  this  will  was  a  forgery,  was  what  Loudon  was 
now  to  attempt.  An  action  was  commenced,  and 
Brown  soon  had  notice  of  the  warfare  now  to  be  car- 
ried on  against  him.  He  raved  and  swore,  but  he 
also  laid  aside  his  cups,  and  went  to  work  to  meet 
the  storm  like  a  man  in  the  full  consciousness  of  the 
justice  of  his  cause.  There  was  writing  and  riding, 
posting  and  sending  writs,  —  for  both  sides  had 
much  at  stake.  It  was  the  last  hope  for  the  widow. 
It  was  the  first  case  for  young  Loudon.  It  was  vic- 
tory or  state's  prison  for  Brown.  The  community, 
one  and  all,  took  sides  with  Mrs.  Henshaw.  If  a 
bias  could  reach  a  jury,  it  must  have  been  in  her  fa- 
vor. Mr.  Snapall  was  engaged  for  Brown,  and  was 
delighted  to  find  that  he  had  only  that  "  white-faced 
boy "  to  contend  with  ;  and  the  good  public  felt 
sorry  that  the  widow  had  not  selected  a  man  of  some 
age  and  experience  ;  but  then  they  said,  "  Women 
will  have  their  own  way." 

The  day  of  trial  came  on.  Great  was  the  excite- 
ment to  hear  the  great  "  will  case,"  and  every  horse 
in  the  region  was  hitched  somewhere  near  the  court- 
house. 

In  rising  to  open  the  case,  young  Loudon  was  em- 
barrassed ;  but  modesty  always  meets  with  encour- 
agement. The  court  gave  him  patient  attention, 
and  soon  felt  that  it  was  deserved.  In  a  clear,  con- 
cise, and  masterly  manner,  he  laid  open  the  case 
just  as  it  stood  in  his  own  mind,  and  proceeded  with 
the  evidence  to  prove  the  will  to  be  a  forgery.  It 


22  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

«. 

was  easy  to  show  the  character  of  Brown  to  be  one 
of  great  iniquity,  and  that  for  him  to  do  this  was 
only  in  keeping  with  that  general  character.  He 
attempted  to  prove  that  the  will  could  not  be  genuine, 
because  one  of  its  witnesses  on  his  death-bed  had 
confessed  that  it  was  a  forgery,  and  that  he  and  his 
friend  had  been  hired  by  Brown  to  testify  and  swear 
to  its  being  genuine.  Here  he  adduced  the  affidavit 
of  a  deceased  witness,  taken  in  full  before  James 
Johnson,  Esq.,  Justice  of  the  Peace,  and  acknowl- 
edged by  him.  So  far  all  was  clear,  and  when  the 
testimony  closed,  it  seemed  clear  that  the  case  was 
won.  But  when  it  came  Mr.  Snapall's  turn,  he  de- 
molished all  these  hopes  by  proving  that,  though 
James  Johnson,  Esq.  had  signed  himself  Justice  of 
the  Peace,  yet  he  was  no  magistrate,  inasmuch  as 
his  commission  had  expired  the  very  day  before  he 
signed  the  paper,  and,  although  he  had  been  re- 
appointed,  yet  he  had  not  been  legally  Qualified  to  act 
as  a  magistrate,  —  that  he  might  or  might  not  have 
supposed  himself  to  be  qualified  to  take  an  affidavit ; 
and  that  the  law,  for  very  wise  reasons,  demanded 
that  an  affidavit  should  be  taken  only  by  a  sworn 
magistrate.  He  was  most  happy,  he  said,  to  ac- 
knowledge the  cool  assurance  of  his  young  brother 
in  the  law  ;  and  the  only  difficulty  was,  that  he  had 
proved  nothing,  except  that  his  tender  conscience 
permitted  him  to  offer  as  an  affidavit  a  paper  that 
was  in  law  not  worth  a  straw,  if  any  better  than  a 
forgery  itself. 

There  was  much  sympathy  felt  for  poor  Loudon, 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  23 

but  he  took  it  very  coolly,  and  seemed  no  way  cast 
down.  Mr.  Snapall  then  brought  forward  his  other 
surviving  witness,  —  a  gallows-looking  fellow,  but 
his  testimony  was  clear,  decided,  and  consistent.  If 
he  was  committing  perjury,  it  was  plain  that  he  had 
been  well  drilled  by  Snapall.  Loudon  kept  his  eye 
upon  him  with  the  keenness  of  the  lynx.  And 
while  Snapall  was  commenting  upon  the  case  with 
great  power,  and  while  Mrs.  Henshaw  and  Mary 
gave  up  all  for  lost,  it  was  plain  that  Loudon,  as  he 
turned  over  the  will,  and  looked  at  it  again  and 
again,  was  thinking  of  something  else  besides  what 
Snapall  was  saying.  He  acted  something  as  a  dog 
does  when  he  feels  sure  he  is  near  the  right  track  of 
the  game,  though  he  dare  not  yet  bark. 

When  Snapall  was  through,  Loudon  requested 
that  the  witness  might  again  be  called  to  the  stand. 
But  he  was  so  mild,  and  kind,  and  timid,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  was  the  one  about  to  commit  per- 
jury. 

"  You  take  your  oath  that  this  instrument,  pur- 
porting to  be  the  will  of  Henry  Henshaw,  was  signed 
by  him  in  your  presence  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  And  you  signed  it  with  your  own  hand  as  wit- 
ness at  the  time  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  What  is  the  date  of  the  will  ?  " 

"  June  18,  1830." 

"When  did  Henshaw  die?" 

"  June  22,  1830." 


24  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

"  Were  you  living  in  the  village  where  he  died  at 
the  time  ?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  How  long  had  you  lived  there  ?  " 

"  About  four  years,  I  believe,  or  somewhere  there- 
abouts." 

Here  Loudon  handed  the  judge  a  paper,  which  the 
judge  unfolded  and  laid  before  him  on  the  bench. 

"  Was  that  village  a  large  or  a  small  one  ?  " 

"  Not  very  large,  —  perhaps  fifty  houses." 

"  You  knew  all  these  houses  well,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  Was  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Henshaw  died,  one 
story  or  two  ?  " 

"  Two,  I  believe." 

"  But  you  know,  don't  you  ?  Was  he  in  the  lower 
story  or  in  the  chamber  when  you  went  to  witness 
the  deed  ? " 

Here  the  witness  tried  to  catch  the  eye  of  Snapall, 
but  Loudon  very  civilly  held  him  to  the  point.  At 
length  he  said,  "  In  the  chamber." 

"  Will  you  inform  the  court  what  was  the  color 
of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  think  —  feel  sure  —  it  wasn't  painted,  but  did 
n't  take  particular  notice." 

"  But  you  saw  it  every  day  for  four  years,  and 
don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  painted." 

"  Which  side  of  the  street  did  it  stand  ?  " 

"  I  can't  remember." 

"  Can  you  remember  which  way  the  street  ran  ?  " 


THE    YOUNG    LAWYER.  25 

"  It  ran  east  and  west." 

"  The  street  ran  east  and  west,  the  house  two 
story,  and  unpainted,  and  Mr.  Henshaw  was  in  the 
chamber  when  you  witnessed  the  will.  Well,  I  have 
but  two  things  more  which  I  will  request  you  to  do. 
The  first  is  to  take  that  pen  and  write  your  name  on 
that  piece  of  paper  on  the  table." 

The  witness  demurred,  and  so  did  Snapall.  But 
Loudon  insisted  upon  it. 

"  I  can't,  my  hand  trembles  so,"  said  the  witness. 

"  Indeed  !  but  you  wrote  a  bold,  powerful  hand 
when  you  signed  that  will.  Come,  you  must  try, 
just  to  oblige  us." 

After  much  haggling  and  some  bravado,  it  came 
out  that  he  could  n't  write,  and  never  learned,  and 
that  he  had  requested  Mr.  Brown  to  sign  the  paper 
for  him ! 

"  O,  ho !  "  said  Loudon.  "  I  thought  you  swore 
that  you  signed  it  yourself.  Now  one  thing  more, 
and  /  have  done  with  you.  Just  let  me  take  the 
pocketbook  in  your  pocket  I  will  open  it  here  be- 
fore the  court,  and  neither  steal  nor  lose  a  paper." 

Again  the  witness  refused,  and.  appealed  to  Snap- 
all  ;  but  that  worthy  man  was  grinding  his  teeth  and 
muttering  something  about  the  witness  going  to  the 
Devil ! 

The  pocketbook  came  out,  and  in  it  was  a  regular 
discharge  of  the  bearer,  John  Ordin,  from  four  years 
imprisonment  in  the  Pennsylvania  Penitentiary,  and 
dated  June  15,  1831,  and  signed  by  Mr.  Wood,  the 
worthy  warden. 


26  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

The  young  advocate  now  took  the  paper  which  he 
had  handed  to  the  judge,  and  showed  the  jury,  that 
the  house  in  which  Mr.  Henshaw  died  was  situated 
in  a  street  running  north  and  south ;  that  it  was  a 
one-story  house  ;  that  it  was  red,  —  the  only  red 
house  in  the  village  ;  and,  moreover,  that  he  died  in 
a  front  room  of  the  lower  story. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  a  stifled 
murmur  of  joy  all  over  the  room.  Brown's  eyes 
looked  bloodshot  ;  the  witness  looked  sullen  and 
dogged,  and  Mr.  Snapall  tried  to  look  very  indif- 
ferent. He  made  no  defence.  The  work  was  done. 
A  very  brief,  decided  charge  was  given  by  the  judge, 
and,  without  leaving  their  seats,  the  jury  convicted 
Brown  of  forgery  ! 

"  That  young  dog  is  keen,  any  how  ! "  said  Snap- 
all. 

"  When  his  conscience  tells  him  he  is  on  the  side 
of  justice,"  said  Loudon,  overhearing  the  remark. 

It  was  rather  late  in  the  evening  before  Loudon 
called  on  his  clients  to  congratulate  them  on  the 
termination  of  their  suit,  and  the  recovery  of  Elm 
Glen.  He  was  met  by  Mary,  who  frankly  gave  him 
her  hand,  and  with  tears  thanked  and  praised  him, 
and  felt  sure  they  could  never  sufficiently  reward 
him.  Loudon  colored,  and  seemed  more  troubled 
than  when  in  the  court.  At  length  he  said  abruptly, 
"  Miss  Henshaw,  you  and  your  mother  can  now  aid 
me.  There  is  a  friend  of  yours  —  a  young  lady  — 
whose  hand  I  wish  to  obtain.  I  am  alone  in  the 
world,  poor,  and  unknown.  This  is  my  first  law- 


THE   YOUNG   LAWYER.  27 

case,  and  when  I  may  have  another  is  more  than  I 
know." 

Mary  turned  pale,  and  faintly  promised  that  she 
and  her  mother  would  aid 'him  to  the  extent  of  their 
power.  Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  she  felt  as  if 
she,  the  only  one  who  was  supposed  to  be  unagitated 
and  cool,  must  speak. 

"  Who  is  the  fortunate  friend  of  mine  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  suspect  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not." 

"  Well,  here  is  her  portrait,"  handing  her  a  minia- 
ture case.  She  touched  a  spring  and  it  flew  open, 
and  in  a  little  mirror  she  saw  her  own  face  I  Now 
the  crimson  came  over  her  beautiful  face,  and  the 
tears  came  thick  and  fast,  and  she  trembled  ;  but  I 
believe  she  survived  the  shock  ;  for  the  last  time  I 
was  that  way,  I  saw  the  conscientious  young  lawyer 
and  his  charming  wife  living  at  Elm  Glen ;  and  I 
heard  them  speak  of  his  first  lawsuit ! 


THE  LITTLE  PORTRAIT. 


NOT  long  since,  I  was  invited  to  visit  my  friend  in 
his  new  house.  It  had  already  become  celebrated 
for  its  new  architecture,  its  conveniences,  and  its 
beauties.  Expense  and  taste  had  united  and  made 
the  house,  the  grounds,  and  every  thing  convenient 
and  delightful.  It  was  evening  when  I  made  my 
visit,  —  meeting  a  large  circle  who  had  been  spend- 
ing the  afternoon  there  on  objects  of  charity,  —  warm- 
hearted Dorcases  they  were,  such  as  are  last  around 
the  body  of  Christ,  and  earliest  at  his  tomb.  The 
parlor  was  very  elegant  in  its  walls,  ceiling,  carpet, 
furniture,  and  pictures.  And  there,  among  the  beau- 
tiful pictures,  hung  the  portrait,  —  the  portrait  of  a* 
little  boy,  with  his  infant  head,  his  little  whip  in  his 
hand,  his  beautiful  eye,  his  fair  forehead,  and  his 
smile  of  happiness.  There  it  hung  in  a  conspicuous 
place,  just  as  it  did  in  the  old  home.  Yes,  and  if 
that  mother  were  to  change  her  home  to  the  log- 
cabin  or  to  the  palace,  that  picture  would  go  with 
her.  Years  have  passed  away  since  he  perished 


THE  LITTLE  PORTRAIT.  29 

from  her  arms  like  a  sweet  blossom,  but  he  lives 
green  and  fresh  in  her  memory.  She  never  speaks 
of  him,  but  I  have  often  seen  her  eye  turned  to  that 
portrait.  He  was  the  last  loan  which  Heaven  com- 
mitted to  them. 

In  how  many  hearts  do  I  awaken  the  memory, 
when  I  speak  of  the  little  child  that  was  snatched 
away  in  the  very  budding  of  its  being !  The  grave 
is  a  cold  place  to  carry  the  child !  Its  loneliness  is 
oppressive.  But  he  is  not  there.  The  shell  only  is 
there.  The  Eternal  Father  hath  thrown  his  arms  of 
love  around  the  spirit.  The  child,  thus  taken  away 
in  infancy,  will  never  grow  older  to  the  parent. 
Memory  brings  him  back,  —  but  he  comes  with  his 
curling  locks,  his  flashing  eye,  and  the  joyous  voice 
of  childhood.  He  comes  back  in  the  visions  of  the 
night,  years  after  he  left  us,  and  we  still  embrace 
him  in  our  dreams  ;  but  he  is  a  child  still.  We  feel 
that  he  can  never  grow  older  in  the  world  to  which 
he  hath  gone.  We  may  tread  many  a  weary  path 
in  life,  and  find  many  a  danger  between  us  and  its 
end,  but  we  are  hastening  to  the  world  where  we  shall 
find  our  jewels  set  in  the  crown  of  Christ. 

In  how  many  hearts  will  the  following  beautiful 
lines  find  a  response  ! 

Mine  earthly  children  round  me  bloom, 

Lovely  alike  in  smiles  and  tears ; 
My  fairest  sleeps  within  the  tomb, 

Through  long  and  sifent  years ; 

A  fairy  thing,  with  flaxen  hair, 
And  eyes  of  blue,  and  downy  cheek, 


30  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

And  frolic  limbs,  and  lips  that  were 
Striving  for  evermore  to  speak ; 

A  thing  as  lovely  as  the  day, 

Fair  as  the  form  that  clothes  the  beams, 

As  innocent  as  flowers  of  May, 
As  frail,  as  fading,  as  our  dreams. 

I  see  the  seals  of  childhood  fade 

Slowly  from  each  young  living  brow, 

Yet  still,  in  sunshine  and  in  shade, 
That  infant  is  an  infant  now. 

Seasons  may  roll,  and  manhood's  pride 

Each  youthful  breast  with  care  may  fill, 
And  one  by  one  they  '11  leave  my  side, 
j  But  he  will  be  a  baby  still ! 

And  evermore  by  thee  unseen, 
That  vision  followeth  everywhere ; 

When  six  are  gathered  on  the  green, 
Yet  I  can  see  another  there ! 

When  six  around  the  board  are  set, 
And  call  on  father  and  on  mother, 

To  mortal  eyes  but  six  are  met, 
But  I  —  but  I  can  see  another  ! 

The  heart  that  dictated  these  lines  had  been  smit- 
ten, and  these  are  the  natural  gushings  of  such  a 
heart.  And  these  are  the  feelings  when  the  be- 
reaved parent  looks  back,  and  no  higher  than  the 
earth ;  but  when  he  follows  the  early  dead  by  faith, 
he  breaks  out  in  a  different  strain. 

A  cherub  child  with  angel  wings 

Is  floating  o'er  me  fond  and  free, 
And  still  that  gladsome  infant  sings, 

"  Grieve  not,  dear  mother,  not  for  me!" 


* 

THE    LITTLE    PORTRAIT.  31 

["I  walk  on  heaven's  bright  crystal  sea, 

I  sing  the  song  to  martyrs  dear, 
And  He  who  died  for  such  as  me 

Doth  guide  and  teach  and  love  me  here. 

"  I  rise  above  all  pain  and  fears,  — 
And  what  I  am  thou  soon  shalt  be ; 

O,  hush  thy  sorrows,  —  wipe  thy  tears ! 
Grieve  not,  dear  mother,  not  for  me ! "] 

I  have  added  the  last  two  stanzas,  —  not  to  show 
my  poetical  powers,  but  to  carry  out  the  beauti- 
ful thought  of  my  author.  This  holding  the  depart- 
ed one  in  the  memory  just  as  he  was  when  taken 
from  us,  and  yet  feeling  a  conviction  that  he  must 
be  like  the  angels  of  God  now,  often  produces  a 
strange  feeling,  as  when  we  say,  "  Our  child  would 
have  been  ten  years  old  were  he  now  living,"  and 
then  in  a  moment  our  thoughts  rise  up  to  him,  and 
we  know  that  he  is  ten  years  old, — if  they  reckon 
time  there  as  we  do  here,  —  which  undoubtedly  they 
do  not  do.  While  I  am  in  the  mood  of  poetical  quo- 
tations, I  cannot  omit  a  single  stanza  which  will  re- 
call to  many  hearts  a  strange,  mysterious,  delightful 
feeling  which  the  bereaved  have  felt  at  the  family 
altar :  — 

"  And  when  in  prayer  we  're  bending, 

Will  not  sweet  spirits  come, 
From  the  blest  skies  descending, 

To  join  the  group  at  home  ? 
Green  be  the  turf  above  them.! 

Soft  be  their  lowly  bed! 
There  still  are  hearts  which  love  them,  — 

Our  bright,  our  early  dead ! " 


THE  KENNEBEC  CAPTIVE. 


SOME  of  the  most  beautiful  scenery  to  be  found 
in  this  or  any  land  is  to  be  found  in  the  State  of 
Maine.  Her  rivers  are  numerous  and  great,  her 
mountains  lofty  and  imposing,  her  sea-coast  iron- 
bound  and  rough,  boldly  looking  out  upon  old  Ocean, 
as  he  sweeps  along  with  tides  and  storms,  and  say- 
ing, "Come  on,  sir,  and  I'll  give  you  a  hearty 
welcome  "  ;  —  her  inland  lakes,  still  sleeping  in  the 
wilderness,  are  large  and  magnificent,  her  valleys 
are  warm  and  fertile,  and  her  forests  have  yielded 
to  none  in  the  world  for  the  abundance  and  goodness 
of  their  timber.  Even  now,  her  rivers  send  out 
salmon  and  lumber  for  the  use  of  every  part  of  the 
nation.  At  a  very  early  period  in  the  history  of  our 
country,  settlers  began  to  push  up  her  beautiful  riv- 
ers, and  drop  down  singly,  or  in  small  groups,  as 
they  liked.  She  was  a  wild  province  of  Massachu- 
setts then  ;  and  her  population,  grappling  with  all 
the  hardships  of  the  wilderness,  and  of  her  severe 
climate,  was  very  sparse.  Far  up  the  enchanting 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  33 

Kennebec,  at  a  very  early  day,  were  two  families 
who  had  emigrated  from  the  same  neighborhood, 
and  who  had  long  been  faithful  friends.  Old  Mr. 
Redfield  lived  in  a  comfortable,  but  in  no  way  im- 
posing log-house,  on  the  banks  of  the  river.  He  was 
a  kind-hearted,  benevolent  man,  never  believing  the 
world  to  be  wicked  enough  to  cheat  him,  though  al- 
most every  week  taught  him  the  opposite  doctrine. 
He  labored  hard,  was  a  good  husband  and  father,  a 
warm-hearted  and  humble  Christian,  and  loving  all 
men  much,  but  his  God  more.  He  honestly  earned 
property,  but  could  never  make  it  stick  to  his  fingers. 
His  wife  was  a  noble-hearted  woman,  who  had  re- 
linquished brighter  prospects  that  she  might  be  hap- 
py with  the  man  of  her  choice.  And  she  had  been 
happy.  One  by  one  their  children  had  sickened  in 
the  wilderness,  and  they  had  carried  them  to  the 
little  opening  in  the  forest  which  they  had  cleared 
for  a  burying-place.  It  was  the  first  clearing  he  had 
made  after  reaching  their  new  home  ;  the  briers  and 
wild  weeds  were  not  allowed  to  grow  there.  At  the 
time  my  story  commences,  Mr.  Redfield  had  reached 
the  age  of  sixty  or  more.  His  wife  was  ten  years 
younger.  Only  one  child  remained  to  them,  a  staid, 
sober,  quiet,  yet  courageous  boy,  of  about  ten  years 
of  age,  and  he  went  by  the  plain  name  of  Daniel 
Redfield. 

Somewhat  further  up  the  river  was  a  house  of 
greater  pretensions.  It  was  built  of  brick,  gambrel- 
roofed,  and  was  surrounded  by  fruit-trees  and  gar- 
dens, spacious  barns,  and  out-houses.  It  stood  in  a 


34  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

pleasant  valley,  under  the  shadows  of  a  lofty  moun- 
tain. The  vale  had  been  cleared  up  ;  and  the  fields 
of  wheat  and  corn,  and  the  rich  meadows  of  grass, 
caused  the  passer-by  to  stop  and  gaze,  and  say, 
"  Squire  Ordway  is  well  to  do  in  the  world."  The 
"  Squire  "  was  a  man  who,  like  his  neighbor,  Red- 
field,  was  honest  and  kind  ;  but  in  worldly  wisdom 
he  was  far  his  superior.  They  had  both  come  into 
the  wilderness  poor  ;  but  one  was  now  rich,  and  the 
other  still  dwelt  under  the  shadow  of  the  hill  of 
wealth  without  being  able  to  climb  it.  Its  golden 
sands  never  seemed  to  roll  down  near  him.  But  the 
"  Squire  "  was  up  early  and  late  ;  and  the  man  who 
sold  him  a  poor  article,  or  a  bad  lot  of  lumber,  and 
salmon  not  of  the  first  quality,  must  rise  very  early 
in  the  morning  to  do  it.  Mr.  Ordway  had  a  large 
family  of  boys.  They  were  not  so  polished,  for 
they  had  to  rough  it  from  their  very  infancy.  Mu- 
tual dependence  apid  common  privations  teach  the 
pioneers  of  the  forest  to  be  ready  for  any  act  of 
kindness  which  a  neighbor  needs  ;  and  no  kinder 
neighbors  than  the  Ordways  could  be  found  on  the 
Kenne'bec.  The  parents  were  proud  of  their  boys  ; 
for  none  could  prostrate  the  forest,  get  out  timber- 
logs  for  the  mills,  hunt  the  moose,  or  catch  the 
salmon,  with  more  skill  than  they.  But  the  pet  of 
the  flock  was  an  only  daughter,  about  four  years  old. 
She  was  the  youngest  and  last  child,  wild  as  the  for- 
est blossoms  about  them,  and  as  beautiful  too.  Little 
Susan  was  the  idol  of  the  family.  The  father  and 
mother  early  discovered  that  she  was  "  a  remarkable 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  35 

child,"  and  the  boys  received  it  as  a  fact  not  to  be 
questioned.  Hence  they  gathered  flowers  in  the 
spring,  berries  and  fruit  in  the  summer,  nuts  in  the 
autumn,  and  planned  slides  and  sled-drawings  on  the 
ice  in  the  winter,  for  "  little  Susan."  Hence  it  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  that,  as  she  grew  up,  she 
found  a  will  of  her  own,  and  that  her  little  foot 
sometimes  came  down  with  a  decision  that  was  un- 
bending. 

As  the  two  families  advanced,  it  was  plain  that 
the  Ordways  were  to  increase  and  spread,  and  grow 
wealthy.  It  was  as  clear  that  the  Redfields  never 
would.  Daniel  "  took  to  books."  Not  that  he  dis- 
liked work,  but  he  yearned  for  knowledge  ;  so  that 
there  was  not  a  book  in  the  whole  region,  of  whose 
contents  he  was  not  a  perfect  master.  Happening 
to  light  upon  a  stray  Euclid,  the  parents  wondered 
much  over  the  beautiful  figures  which  he  drew  on 
the  white  birch  bark  gathered  fro^the  forest.  Every 
pitch-pine  root  which  he  found  was  carefully  saved 
to  give  him  light  for  study  after  the  labors  of  the 
day.  At  the  age  of  seventeen,  the  father  of  Daniel 
began  to  droop.  It  was  evident  that  he  must  die. 
Like  a  wise  man,  he  had  set  his  house  in  order  ;  and 
the  only  regrets  which  he  had  on  the  conviction  that 
he  must  die  were,  that  he  left  his  widow  and  child 
so  poorly  endowed.  But  he  knew  the  promises  of 
God  to  be  faithful,  and  his  eye  of  faith  did  not  grow 
dim. 

A  few  days  before  he  died,  Squire  Ordway  came 
to  pay  his  friend  a  visit.  They  had  never  quarrelled, 

I 


3b  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

and  had  no  malice  to  overcome.  They  had  lived 
and  loved  like  brothers,  and  the  tears  which  they 
now  shed  were  of  the  true  currency  of  the  heart. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,"  said  the  dying  man  ;  "  I  do 
not  doubt  that  you  will  advise  and  encourage  the 
poor  woman  as  a  brother  would  ;  —  and  she  '11  need 
it.  I  have  my  little  farm  paid  for,  and  the  cow  and 
the  pony  ;  but  that 's  all,  neighbor.  And  then,  my 
boy  Daniel !  I  've  tried  hard,  perhaps  not  so  faith- 
fully as  I  ought,  to  wean  him  from  his  books  ;  but 
it 's  in  him,  and  fire  could  n't  burn  it  out  of  him. 
What  can  be  done  for  him  and  with  him  ?  " 

"  It 's  no  use  in  trying,  my  old  friend.  It 's  just 
as  natural  for  him  to  study  as  for  a  trout  to  bite  at  a 
fly.  Study  he  will,  and  study  he  must,  and  I  '11 
promise  to  aid  him  all  I  can." 

"  God  bless  you  for  that,  James  Ordway.  And 
if  he  don't  feel  grateful,  and  thank  you,  sure  you 
are  that  you  have  the  thanks  of  a  dying  father  be- 
forehand." 

"  Who  can  tell  but  that,  like  one  of  our  own 
rough  logs  which  we  send  down  the  river,  and 
which  is  worked  into  a  beautiful  house  at  Boston,  he 
may  yet  become  something  that  will  honor  us  all." 

So  said  the  friend  and  neighbor,  and  the  eye  of 
the  dying  man  kindled  with  joy,  and  Hope  was  there 
to  cheer  him,  and  Faith  to  strengthen  him  ;  and  so 
his  last  interview  with  his  old  friend  was  one  of  deep 
consolation. 

The  good  old  man  was  buried  in  the  little  grave- 
yard ;  and  the  deep  snows  soon  laid  their  pure  white 


THE   KENNEBEC   CAPTIVE.  37 

sheet  over  him,  and  the  winds  that  sighed  through 
the  lofty  forest  tolled  his  requiem.  In  a  short  time, 
Mr.  Ordway  went  to  see  the  nearest  educated  mind 
in  the  region,  —  a  humble  minister  of  the  Gospel, — 
who  lived  in  a  poor  shanty  about  six  miles  off  through 
the  woods,  and  who  had  followed  his  sheep  there  to 
keep  them  from  the  wolves.  The  good  man  was  a 
finished  scholar,  and,  with  a  smiling  face-,  told  Mr. 
Ordway  to  send  the  young  man  without  fee  or  re- 
ward. He  promised  to  do  so ;  but  the  Squire  had 
occasion  to  go  that  way  often,  and  it  was  noticed  that 
he  always  stopped,  ostensibly  to  inquire  about  his 
protegt,  but  in  reality  to  drop  a  bag  of  potatoes,  a 
quarter  of  beef,  a  few  yards  of  flannel,  or  something 
to  add  to  the  real  comfort  of  the  minister's  family. 
Daniel  was  a  good  and  profitable  pupil.  Twice  a 
week  on  his  pony,  Shag,  did  he  go  to  recite,  and 
never  without  stopping  at  Mr.  Ord way's  a  moment,  — 
since  he  must  needs  go  past  his  door.  It  was  soon 
found  that  Daniel  could  in  a  measure  compensate 
Mr.  Ordway,  for  he  now  gave  lessons  regularly  to 
"little  Susan,"-  as  she  was  still  called,  though  she 
was  now  fairly  in  her  teens.  She  had  never  mani- 
fested any  very  great  love  for  books,  but  under  Dan- 
iel's supervision  she  actually  studied  and  made  rapid 
advances.  It  's  impossible  to  tell  why,  but  young 
misses  do  so  sometimes.  They  become  apt  scholars. 
Time  moved  on,  or  else  our  story  could  not.  The 
Revolutionary  War  had  broken  out,  and  raged.  The 
call  of  the  infant  nation,  invoking  the  spirit  of  free- 
dom, had  penetrated  even  the  wilderness ;  and  the 


38  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

young  Ordways  had  every  one  dropped  the  axe,  left 
their  clearings,  and  gone  to  join  the  army  of  Wash- 
ington. Young  Redfield  had  completed  his  college 
course,  within  a  few  months,  by  the  great  efforts  and 
economy  of  his  widowed  mother,  and  the  kindness 
of  her  husband's  old  friend,  when  the  college  was 
broken  up  by  the  war,  and  the  students  scattered. 
Daniel  had  returned  home  to  consult  his  mother  and 
his  friend,  Ordway,  whether  or  not  he  should  join  the 
army  also.  It  was  a  doubtful  question  ;  for  though 
he  was  a  good  hunter,  and  a  dead-shot  with  the  rifle, 
yet  ten  to  one  but,  if  he  got  hold  of  a  book,  the  en- 
emy might  charge  and  ride  over  him  ere  he  knew  it. 
The  widow  felt  that  she  could  not  have  him  go  ;  — 
he  was  her  all.  Mr.  Ordway  hesitated  what  to  ad- 
vise, and  "  little  Susan,"  now  eighteen,  and  as  pretty 
and  as  authoritative  as  ever,  declared  it  was  a  shame  ; 
that  he  ought  not  to  go  and  leave  his  aged  mother ; 
that  it  was  lonesome  to  have  every  body  go  off;  and 
that  she  was  almost  ready  to  enlist  and  become  a 
soldier  herself,  rather  than  stay  there  in  the  woods 
so  lonely ! 

While  this  grave  question  was  undecided,  young 
Redfield  one  morning  took  his  rifle,  and  went  up  the 
Kennebec  to  hunt  for  moose.  A  moose  is  a  large 
species  of  deer.  If  my  readers  never  saw  one,  they 
have  to  imagine  a  round,  fat  horse,  cut  his  tail  off 
short,  and  leave  him  no  tail,  put  an  ass's  head  on 
him,  with  immense  horns,  —  sometimes  weighing 
ninety  pounds,  —  give  him  long,  deer's  legs  and 
hoofs,  and  you  have  a  pretty  good  moose !  They 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  3\f 

weigh  as  much,  and  often  more  than  a  horse,  and 
stand  up  much  higher  from  the  ground.  Daniel 
went  up  the  river,  but  night  came  and  he  did  not  re- 
turn. This  gave  no  uneasiness.  But  after  he  had 
been  gone  two,  three,  and  four  days,  the  mother's 
heart  began  to  grow  alarmed.  There  had  been  a 
great  rain,  and,  if  alive  and  well,  why  had  he  not 
come  back  ?  She  caught  old  Shag,  and  went  down 
to  consult  Mr.  Ordway.  He  at  first  thought  the 
young  man  had  been  unsuccessful,  and  had  deter- 
mined to  hunt  till  he  had  got  a  moose.  Susan  af- 
fected to  laugh,  and  said  "  he  undoubtedly  had  found 
moose  enough,  but  probably  had  thrown  a  book  at 
them  instead  of  shooting ;  for  her  part,  she  had  no 
doubt  he  was  looking  up  the  books  which  he  had 
thus  thrown  away ! "  At  the  same  time  the  poor 
girl  stopped  her  sewing,  her  fingers  trembled  so ! 
Mr.  Ordway  procured  an  old  hunter,  and  they  scoured 
the  forest  in  search.  They  found'  his  trail,  and  fol- 
lowed it  up  to  Moosehead  Lake,  where  the  Kennebec 
breaks  out  so  wildly  and  so  unexpectedly  from  that 
majestic  lake.  There  he  had  shot  a  moose,  which  was 
lying  in  the  edge  of  the  water  where  it  fell.  There 
they  found  his  hunting-knife,  as  if  dropped  careless- 
ly ;  but  no  further  could  they  trace  him.  The  shore 
of  the  wild  lake  was  stony,  and  no  marks  of  the  feet 
could  be  seen.  In  vain  they  shouted,  kindled  fires, 
and  fired  their  rifles ;  the  echoes  came  down  from 
far  up  the  lake,  but  no  other  response.  Had  he  fall- 
en into  the  rapid  river  ?  They  could  find  no  traces 
of  him.  After  lingering  and  searching  a  couple  of 


40  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

days,  they  returned  towards  home,  occasionally  firing 
their  rifles,  each  in  quick  succession,  —  the  hunter's 
signal,  —  hoping,  though  faintly,  that  he  had  reached 
home.  But  no,  he  was  not  there.  It  was  a  profound 
mystery.  The  widowed  mother  was  almost  crushed 
by  the  misfortune.  Mr.  Ordway  sent  all  the  way  to 
the  army,  to  see  if  by  any  possibility  his  sons  had 
seen  or  heard  from  young  Redfield ;  but  they  had 
not.  They  had  expected  he  would  have  joined  them 
before  this.  So  it  continued  to  be  a  profound  mys- 
tery. The  mother  made  up  her  mind  that  he  had 
fallen  into  the  river  somewhere,  and  was  drowned. 
Ordway  nearly  coincided  with  her  in  opinion.  As 
for  Susan,  she  did  n't,  and  she  would  n't  believe,  weak 
as  he  was,  but  that  he  knew  enough  to  keep  out  of 
the  water,  or  at  least  to  rise  up  after  he  was  dead 
and  float !  What  her  theory  was,  she  never  told  ; 
but  though  she  felt  bad  enough,  it  was  not  that  chok- 
ing grief  which  the  certain  death  of  our  friends  al- 
ways brings.  The  old  hunter  averred  that  there  was 
a  mighty  spirit  by  the  name  of  Kinnio,  who  owned 
that  lake,  and  who  sometimes  destroyed  people  who 
came  to  his  lake  alone.  His  home  was  on  a  moun- 
tain in  the  middle  of  the  lake  (now  called  Mount 
Kinnio),  where  he  carried  his  victims,  and  ate  them 
half-roasted !  And  he  consoled  the  mourners  with 
the  assurance,  that  he  had  no  doubt  but  they  could 
find  some  of  the  young  man's  bones  the  next  season, 
thrown  down  the  mountain ! 

Young  Redfield  had  been  lost,  not  forgotten,  about 
two  years,  when  a  suitor,  every  way  prepossessing, 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  41 

presented  himself  at  the  "  brick  house,"  and,  in  the 
most  proper  way  possible,  offered  his  hand  and  heart 
to  Susan.  To  the  surprise  of  all,  she  civilly  declined 
both.  The  young  man  besought  her  parents  to  inter- 
cede for  him.  They  did  so,  and  to  no  purpose.  He 
then  sought  the  aid  of  the  Widow  Redfield,  and  she 
had  a  talk  with  Miss  Susan.  To  her  surprise,  the 
girl  would  talk  of  nothing  but  her  son  Daniel,  his 
habits,  his  ability  to  swim,  his  power  to  take  care  of 
himself.  To  her  own  amazement,  positive  Susan 
did  n't  and  would  n't  believe  he  was  dead,  or  ever  had 
been  dead  ;  not  she  !  The  widow  almost  forgot  her 
errand,  and  went  home,  blaming  herself  for  indulging 
hopes  on  the  whim  of  a  spoiled  child.  But  she  went 
to  work  in  right  good  earnest  to  find  Capeeno,  an 
Indian  who  sometimes  came  in  those  parts.  After 
great  search,  Capeeno  was  found,  and  told  that  Miss 
Susan  wanted  to  see  him  very  much. 

Capeeno  was  a  Canadian  Indian,  of  the  Lorette 
tribe,  and  though  his  people  were  in  the  service  of 
the  British,  and  were  fighting  against  the  Americans, 
yet  he  had  remained  in  the  forests  of  Maine,  and  had 
not  taken  up  the  hatchet  on  either  side.  He  had  re- 
ceived many  kindnesses  at  the  "  brick  house,"  and 
little  "Susa"  was  a  great  favorite  with  him.  He 
went  to  her,  and  long  was  their  secret  talk.  Every 
day,  for  three  days,  did  he  come  and  sit  and  smoke, 
and  listen  to  the  persuasions  of  the  "  eetle  squaw." 
At  last  he  seemed  to  come  to  her  views,  for,  on  re- 
ceiving the'  best  blanket  from  her  own  bed,  a  pillow- 
case full  of  flour,  a  new  knife,  a  huge  pouch  of  to- 


42  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

bacco,  a  flask  of  powder,  and  a  great  strip  of  lead, 
which  the  naughty  girl  pulled  from  the  roof  of  the 
house  with  her  own  hands,  he  left,  struck  into  the 
woods,  and  was  seen  no  more.  The  next  storm  that 
came  told  that  the  lead  was  gone,  but  where  gone, 
none  knew.  Who  could  steal  it  ? 

Just  at  the  close  of  a  sultry  summer's  day,  two 
officers  were  walking  arm  in  arm  on  the  heights  of 
Quebec,  discussing  the  news  of  a  late  victory  which 
Washington  had  obtained  in  New  Jersey.  They 
were  amusing  themselves  at  the  whipping  he  was 
about  to  receive,  evidently  greatly  mortified  that  the 
boot  had  been  on  the  wrong  foot  of  late. 

"  What  would  you  give  for  his  neck,"  said  one, 
"  should  Lord  Howe  catch  him  ?  " 

"  Just  as  much  as  I  would  for  the  necks  of  all  Con- 
gress,  when  we  have  once  subdued  them,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Howe  thought  he  had  the  ragged  army  of  Wash- 
ington once  so  hemmed  in,  that  he  could  not  escape, 
but  in  the  morning  he  was  not  there  ;  the  theatre  had 
spectators,  but  no  actors." 

" '  Fuit  non  ignobilis  Argis 

Qui  credebat  magnos  audire  tragcedos,' 

as  Virgil  says,  though  I  've  forgotten  the  whole  quo- 
tation," replied  the  other. 

"  With  your  honor's  leave,"  said  a  voice  near  by, 

'  Fuit  hand  ignobilis  Argis, 
Qui  se  credebat  miros  audire  tragcedos, 
In  vacuo  Itctus  sessor  plausorquc  theatro,' 
as  Horace,  not  Virgil,  says." 


THE    KEJiNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  43 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  'm  your  honor's  humble  servant." 

"  Oh  !  my  young  friend,  the  prisoner  whom  I 
begged  out  of  the  hospital,  and  gave  him  unusual 
privileges,  even  when  he  won't  give  us  his  word  that 
he  won't  run  away,  if  he  can !  Well,  I  stand  cor- 
rected as  to  my  quotation  and  my  author,  though  I 
should  never  expect  a  backwoodsman  to  be  able  to 
quote  the  classics.  But  why  have  you  so  long  re- 
fused to  give  your  word,  and  be  treated  as  a  prisoner 
of  war  ?  " 

"  Because,  sir,  I  am  not  a  prisoner  of  war.  I  was 
captured  far  from  the  seat  of  war,  a  peaceful  citizen, 
by  your  hired  Indians,  at  Moosehead  Lake." 

"  We  shall  not  dispute  about  it.  While  I  feel 
sorry  for  you,  I  shall  take  care  that  you  do  not  get 
away." 

"  You  have  just  acknowledged,  sir,  that  we  do 
sometimes  escape  when  you  least  expect  it." 

The  officers  looked  at  each  other,  and  passed  on. 
The  young  man  was  left  alone.  He  was  pale, 
and  evidently  in  poor  health.  From  the  lofty , 
of  Quebec,  at  sundown  beat  of  the  drurrf^j 
his  eyes  down  on  the  glorious  St.  Lawrei 
then  turned  eastward,  and  sent  his  though 
and  fast  through  the  almost  interminable  forests  that 
lay  in  that  direction.  He  had  left  the  parade-ground, 
and  was  making  his  way  to  the  prison-yard,  when  a 
hand  beckoned  him  behind  an  angle  of  the  wall. 

"  Me  want  see  you." 

"  Who  are  you  ?     It  is  so  dark  I  cannot  see  you." 


44  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

"Me  know  you,  —  know  your  mother,  —  know 
Shag,  —  know  bi'ick  house,  —  know  Susa.  How 
long  'fore  door  shut  up  ?  " 

"Perhaps  twenty  minutes,  —  perhaps  fifteen." 

"  Good.  Me  walk  this  side  street,  you  t'  other. 
Keep  hees  eye  on  me,  and  go  where  me  go." 

The  Indian  shuffled  off,  saying  aloud,  "  Yankee 
man  mad,  say  whip  me,  he  catch  me,  me  get  canoe, 
and  he  no  find  me."  So  he  had  the  appearance  of 
having  insulted  a  prisoner,  and  that  prisoner  had  the 
appearance  of  following  him  in  hot  resentment. 
Down  the  hill  he  went  faster  and  faster,  till  he 
reached  the  St.  Lawrence,  where  lay  a  canoe.  In 
it  stepped  the  Indian,  barely  pointing  to  another, 
which  lay  near  it,  and  pushed  off.  The  young  man 
leaped  in  the  other,  and  pushed  after  him  as  if  in  a 
race.  Down  the  river  they  went  a  little  way,  and 
landed  beyond  Point  Levy.  They  leaped  ashore 
just  as  they  heard  the  alarm  sounded  from  the 
heights  across  the  river,  signifying  the  escape  of  a 
prisoner  or  of  a  soldier.  The  Indian  paused  a 
moment,  and  listened  and  said,  "  White  men  too 
much  noise,  —  too  much  parade,  —  lose  trail  while  he 
drum."  He  led  the  way  among  the  bushes  as  fast 
as  the  young  man  could  follow.  How  far  they  went 
that  night  the  prisoner  knew  not.  When  morning 
came,  they  were  by  the  side  of  a  river,  just  below 
some  beautiful  falls.  For  more  than  a  mile  they  had 
waded  in  the  river's  edge,  so  as  to  conceal  their 
footsteps.  Here,  just  under  the  falls,  was  an  open- 
ing from  the  water,  which  led  into  a  cave.  They 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  45 

crawled  up,  and  were  soon  on  a  platform,  high  and 
dry,  with  a  sufficiency  of  light.  The  young  man 
was  greatly  exhausted,  and  lay  down,  leaning  upon 
his  elbow.  The  Indian  sat  down  before  him,  his 
feet  curled  up  under  him  (pedibus  intortis),  bolt  up- 
right. His  head  was  shaggy,  with  hair  long,  coarse, 
and  turning  gray,  like  the  mane  of  a  moose.  His 
only  clothing  was  a  dingy  red  shirt,  and  trousers  of 
untanned  deer-skin.  His  moccasons  were  the  skin 
of  the  moose's  hind  leg,  cut  off  a  little  below  the 
joint,  sewed  up  at  one  end,  and  drawn  on  and  fitted 
to  the  foot  while,  green.  His  teeth  were  mostly 
gone,  and  he  looked,  as  he  was,  a  tough,  short, 
powerful  creature,  afraid  of  nothing,  having  nothing 
to  make  or  lose.  They  gazed  at  each  ojher  in  si- 
lence awhile  ;  at  length  the  young  man  said :  "  I 
have  followed  you  all  night.  I  have  put  my  life  in 
your  hand  ;  now  who  are  you,  and  what  do  you 
want  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  'fraid  of  me  ?  " 

"  No.  If  I  had  been,  I  should  not  have  followed 
you.  And  now,  if  you  ain't  the  evil  spirit,  who  are 
you  ?  " 

"  Spose  we  meet  Lorette  Indians  ;  they  no  hurt 
you.  Me  run,  then  you  no  can  say  who  Indian  be  ?  " 

"  So  you  want  to  run  if  we  are  in  danger,  and 
leave  me  to  my  fate,  and  that,  too,  so  that  you  can't 
be  known  !  " 

The  Indian  looked  fierce  for  a  moment,  and  drew 
out  his  hunting-knife.  The  young  man  kept  his  eye 
carefully  on  him.  From  the  bottom  of  the  sheath, 


46  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

there  rolled  out  a  small  piece  of  paper,  which  he 
handed  to  the  young  man.  He  unrolled  it  and 
read  :  — 

"  Should  this  ever  meet  the  eyes  of  D.  R.,  let  him 
know  that  the  bearer  is  trustworthy.  Follow  him 
implicitly. — Susan  O." 

Young  Redfield  sprang  up,  and  caught  the  Indian 
by  the  hand,  and  almost  shouted  question  upon  ques- 
tion. He  was  ready  to  go,  felt  strong,  could  travel 
all  day,  and  then  fell  back  exhausted.  The  Indian 
gave  him  some  water,  and  then  some  dried  venison 
from  his  wallet,  and  bade  him  lie  down  and  sleep  till 
night,  if  he  could.  Redfield  did  so,  but  his  brain 
whirled.  In  a  troubled  sleep,  he  now  dreamed  of 
home,  and  then  of  his  prison,  then  of  Susan  Ord- 
way  ;  then  he  heard  the  alarm-bell,  and  the  voices  of 
men  pursuing,  and  then  the  baying  of  bloodhounds 
hard  after  him,  and  then  he  would  awake  and  find 
it  was  the  roar  of  the  falls  near  him  !  So  he  spent 
the  day.  At  night  they  came  out  of  their  cave,  and 
followed  the  course  of  the  beautiful  Chaudiere  River, 
up  towards  its  head-waters.  This  charming  valley 
was  already  occupied  by  the  French  population,  and 
they  were  compelled  to  travel  by  night,  and  lie  by 
during  the  day.  Their  progress  was  necessarily 
slow.  On  the  fourth  day,  the  Indian  crept  out  of 
their  covert,  and  saw  several  horsemen  coming  to- 
wards them.  He  knew  instantly  that  they  were 
British  soldiers  in  pursuit.  They  were  on  a  hill 
about  half  a  mile  distant,  and  had  to  descend  into 
a  valley,  and  rise  another  hill  before  they  reached 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  47 

him.  He  gazed  at  them  earnestly,  till  they  de- 
scended the  hill,  and  then  he  sprang  up  like  a  cat. 
He  made  the  prisoner  run  to  the  roadside  and  climb 
up  into  a  thick  evergreen,  far  up  out  of  sight.  He 
then  took  off  his  moccasons  and  hid  them  ;  then  he 
turned  his  red  shirt,  and  it  was  yellow ;  he  turned 
his  skin-trousers,  and  they  were  now  a  kind  of  dirty 
green.  He  drew  a  cap  so  close  over  his  head,  that 
it  almost  made  the  head  ache  to  look  at  it.  Then  he 
sat  down  under  the  tree,  and  very  composedly  began 
to  smoke.  The  horsemen  came  up  to  him  at  a  brisk 
pace,  and  surrounded  him,  with  their  pistols  in 
hand. 

"  Move  a  foot,  you  dog  of  an  Indian,  and  you  are 
dead.  Shoot  him  if  he  moves." 

The  Indian  smoked  on,  evidently  not  able  to  un- 
derstand a  word,  and  as  unmoved  as  a  rock. 

The  commander  then  interrogated  him  in  French. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Lorette  Indian." 

"  What  are  you  here  for  ?  " 

"  Me  run,  catch  prisoner  ;  have  much  blanket 
when  catch  him." 

"  Men,"  said  the  officer,  "  were  any  Lorettes  sent 
out  ?  this  fellow  don't  look  as  if  he  could  run 
much." 

"  Yes,  sir,  half  a  dozen  were  sent  out,  but  this 
fellow  —  " 

"You  say  you  are  after  prisoner.  Now  speak 
the  truth,  or  our  pistols  will  make  daylight  shine 
through  you.  What  was  the  prisoner's  name  ?  " 


48  '    SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Reffeeld,  Captain  say." 

"  And  who  do  you  suppose  went  off  with  him  ? 
I  wish  I  could  meet  him  ! " 

"Indians  say,  strange  Indian — Capeeno  —  short 
man  —  no  so  bigger  as  I.  He  bad  Indian  —  steal 
away  prisoner." 

"  Where  are  the  rest  of  your  runners  ?  " 

The  Indian  pointed  to  a  smoke  that  was  rising  up 
among  the  trees.  The  soldiers  put  up  their  pistols, 
came  into  a  line,  and  went  away.  Poor  Redfield  in 
the  tree  breathed  easier,  but  Capeeno  kept  on  smok- 
ing, as  unmoved  as  if  he  had  been  in  no  danger. 
Whether  the  smoke  which  he  saw  really  did  arise 
from  the  camp  of  the  Lorette  runners,  he  did  not 
say.  But  he  left  the  Chaudiere,  and  struck  through 
the  woods  in  a  direct  line,  till  they  reached  the  De 
Loup  (Wolf  River),  whose  channel  they  followed 
all  night,  only  stopping  to  listen  as  they  heard  the 
howl  of  the  wolf,  or  the  crashing  tread  of  a  moose. 
Then  they  went  to  the  head-lakes,  from  which  the 
Chaudiere  rises.  Here  they  paused  and  built  a  bark 
canoe.  The  cedar  for  bows  and  lining,  the  birch 
for  the  bark,  and  the  spruce  roots  for  thread,  were 
all  to  be  found  here  in  abundance.  They  went 
through  the  mighty  forest,  and  lakes  which  give  rise 
to  the  great  Penobscot,  killing  moose,  and  catching 
trout  for  food.  The  Indian  was  surprised  to  find 
that  the  young  man  would  stop  every  seventh  day, 
and  read  all  day  from  a  little  book,  and  no  persua- 
sions could  move  him.  He  wondered,  too,  what  . 
made  him  read  that  little  scroll  of  paper  so  often, 


THE    KENNEBEC    CAPTIVE.  49 

which  he  had  brought  in  the  sheath  of  his  knife. 
They  then  struck  the  Penobscot,  carrying  their  canoe 
from  lake  to  lake,  and  from  lake  to  river,  till  they 
came  down  that  river  to  a  great  island,  opposite 
which  there  came  in  a  little  brook.  Up  this  they 
tur,ned,  and  after  one  more  carrying-place  they 
struck  the  upper  end  of  Moosehead  Lake.  How 
beautiful  !  how  beautiful !  In  three  days  more,  early 
in  the  morning,  the  Widow  Redfield  looked  out  of 
her  door,  and  saw  Capeeno  approaching,  with  a 
stranger  behind  him.  She  shaded  her  eyes  from  the 
morning  sun  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  scream  of 
agonized  joy,  fell  to  the  ground.  When  she  awoke, 
she  and  her  son  were  weeping  in  each  other's  arms.^ 
That  very  day  the  Indian  took  Daniel  —  nothing 
loath,  —  to  the  brick  house.  Susan  was  glad,  and  was 
ashamed  to  be  glad.  She  laughed  to  appear  indif- 
ferent, and  wept  because  her  emotions  must  have 
some  vent.  She  appeared  to  know  very  little  about 
his  deliverance  ;  but  Capeeno  went  away  in  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,  a  new  rifle,  and  I  know  not  what  be- 
sides. 

Pshaw!  Susan!  You  need  not  blush,  —  you  re- 
deemed a  noble  fellow  from  captivity,  and  you  found 
that  he  not  only  made  a  great  and  a  good  man,  but 
a  good  husband,  as  you  did  a  devoted  and  noble 
wife. 


HELEM  AND  SHELESH. 


At  a  Cottage  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Horeb,  towards  the  dose  of 
Solomon's  reign. 

Helem.  Why,  my  son,  thou  hast  stayed  at  the 
city  longer  than  I  expected !  We  began  to  fear  lest 
zeal  in  politics  would  lead  thee  to  enlist  in  the  army, 
or  somehow  or  other  to  enter  the  service  of  the  king. 
Long  life  to  him  !  But  what  impressions  hast  thou 
received  ? 

Shelesh.  Go  to,  now,  my  good  father.  Thou  art 
more  than  half  right.  I  had  some  knowledge  of  the 
history  of  our  nation  through  thee  and  the  holy 
writings,  but  never  got  the  idea  of  what  we  are,  and 
are  to  become,  till  I  went  to  Jerusalem.  Now  I 
know  that  nothing  can  check  or  thwart  our  destiny. 
Mine  eyes  have  seen,  and  therefore  I  know  ! 

Helem.  Well,  let  my  ears  hear,  for  they  are 
open. 

Shelesh.  So  will  thine  eyes  be  shortly.  Thy  few 
lines  on  the  parchment  addressed  to  Shobah,  the 
king's  keeper  of  fowls,  introduced  me  to  the  very 


HELEM    AND    SHELESH.  51 

heart  of  things.  Already  is  Solomon  the  wonder  of 
the  earth,  and  yet  our  nation  has  but  just  begun  its 
career  of  glory !  I  went  over  the  mountains  to 
Joppaj  and  stood  on  the  wharf  when  his  ships  came 
in  from  Tarshish.  Such  ships  I  never  dreamed  of! 
Why,  there  was  a  fleet  of  them !  Some  had  ele- 
phants alive,  some  were  filled  with  the  white  horns 
of  the  elephant !  Some  with  apes,  —  what  a  chat- 
tering they  made!  Some  with  peacocks,  —  what  a 
screaming  !  Some  had  silver,  and  some  gold  ! 
Such  heaps  and  bags  of  gold !  and  all  for  Solomon  ! 
They  had  been  gone  three  years.  Then  came  a  long 
row  of  kings  with  their  presents.  Such  harnesses 
for  horses  and  chariots !  such  plates  and  bowls  and 
dishes  of  silver  and  of  gold  !  such  horses  and  mules, 
such  robes  of  silk  and  linen,  such  crowns  and  scep- 
tres, as  the  kings  brought !  It  seemed  as  if  all  the 
beautiful  things  of  the  earth  are  at  Jerusalem,  in  the 
king's  treasury.  Then  there  is  a  regular  chariot 
running  between  Jerusalem  and  Egypt,  and  any 
body  can  ride  up  and  down  for  six  hundred  shekels 
of  silver,  or  a  man  can  take  passage  on  horseback 
for  one  hundred  and  fifty  shekels,  for  the  king  raises 
his  horses  there.  The  kings  of  the  earth  come  to 
Jerusalem  to  do  him  homage.  He  has  fourteen 
hundred  war-chariots,  and  four  thousand  stables  for 
his  horses,  and  twelve  thousand  horsemen.  He  has 
whole  cities  devoted  to  his  chariots.  But  that  is  not 
all.  Solomon  has  the  greatest  family,  —  three  hun- 
dred wives  and  seven  hundred  concubines,  selected 
from  all  the  great  families  of  the  earth,  —  so  that  it 


52  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

is  for  the  interest  of  all  people  to  maintain  the  honor 
and  the  glory  of  our  people.  At  Ezion-geber,  too, 
he  has  an  overwhelming  army,  all  equipped  with 
spears  and  swords  and  wai'-clubs,  —  the  very  per- 
fection of  naval  equipment,  and  such,  probably,  as 
the  world  will  never  excel.  But  what  I  especially 
rejoice  in  at  this  time  is,  that  he  has  just  concluded 
a  treaty  by  which  he  extends  his  dominions  all  the 
way  across  the  desert  to  the  great  river  Euphrates  ! 
—  a  country  vastly  larger  than  all  the  original  terri- 
tory of  the  twelve  tribes.  O,  many  times  greater  ! 
Then,  in  the  middle  of  it,  he  has  built  the  great  city 
Tadmor  of  the  wilderness,  where  the  caravans  can 
stop,  and  where  the  army  can  lodge,  who  are  sta- 
tioned there  to  defend  the  caravans  from  the  robbers. 
That  Tadmor  is  a  wonder !  And  now  what  thinkest 
thou,  father  ?  With  such  a  king,  with  so  much  po- 
litical talent,  with  such  revenues,  such  an  army,  such 
a  navy,  such  a  territory,  what  can  stop  our  destiny  ? 
I  can  see  no  end  to  our  greatness,  and  our  destiny  is 
to  fill  Asia,  and  perhaps  to  crowd  out  all  other  peo- 
ple, as  we  did  the  Canaanites,  and  fill  the  world  ! 
Glorious  destiny  !  Not  a  king  in  the  world  dares 
lift  a  finger  against  us.  The  union  of  our  tribes  is 
now  for  ever  secure.  We  are  bound  together  by  the 
glorious  temple  of  Solomon,  by  the  treasures  which 
he  hath  laid  up,  by  our  commerce  by  sea  and  by 
land,  by  the  families  allied  to  Solomon  by  marriage, 
and  by  our  preparations  for  war.  Nothing  can  ever 
weaken  this  glorious  union  of  our  tribes.  We  have 
only  to  fulfil  our  destiny  !  They  already  talk  of  ex- 
tending our  dominions  so  as  to  take  in  Ethiopia. 


HELEM    AND    SHELESH.  53 

Helem.  Didst  thou  hear  any  thing  of  Jeroboam, 
the  son  of  Nebat  ? 

Shelesh.  Yea,  father,  I  heard  his  name  mentioned. 
He  hath  fled  to  the  lower  parts  of  Egypt  and  enlist- 
ed as  a  soldier  there,  and  can  never  return  here,  if 
he  be  not  already  dead.  They  laugh  at  some  folly 
in  the  form  of  anointing  him,  which  took  place  a 
great  while  ago. 

Helem.  Didst  thou  hear  any  thing  said  of  Solo- 
mon's piety,  my  son  ? 

Shelesh.  Why,  no.  He  is  getting  old,  and  what 
with  all  the  kings  that  come  to  see  him  and  his 
wives,  who  are  related  to  them,  and  what  with  all 
his  company  and  concubines  and  wealth  and  glory, 
they  say  he  don't  get  time  to  go  up  to  the  temple. 
But  some  say  he  reads  good  books  at  home  on  the 
Sabbath.  The  Higb^-Priest  shakes  his  head  and 
mourns  much,  but  they  think  it 's  because  he  is  grow- 
ing very  old,  and  Solomon's  example  keeps  almost 
all  Jerusalem  away  from  the  temple.  In  fact,  it 's 
unfashionable,  and  but  few  go  there  now,  except 
strangers. 

Helem.  Ah !  my  son,  mine  ears  have  drank  in 
heavy  tidings.  I  grieve  for  my  people,  for  my  king, 
and  for  thee,  my  child.  Where  thou  seest  glory, 
and  destiny,  and  strength,  and  eternal  perpetuity,  I 
see  shame  and  weakness,  disunion,  and  the  curse  of 
our  father's  God. 

Shelesh.    Let  not  my  father  say  so. 

Helem.  Hast  thou  not  read  that  the  king  whom 
thou  shalt  set  over  thee  "  shall  not  multiply  horses 
5» 


54  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

to  himself,  nor  cause  his  people  to  return  to  Egypt, 
to  the  end  that  he  should  multiply  horses ;  neither 
shall  he  multiply  wives  to  himself,  that  his  heart 
turn  not  away ;  neither  shall  he  greatly  multiply  to 
himself  silver  and  gold  "  ?  According  to  thy  show- 
ing, our  aged  king  hath  had  his  heart  turned  away 
from  the  law  and  the  worship  of  his  God.  The 
great  and  the  wise  one,  spending  his  time  and 
money  in  importing  an  army  of  apes  and  peacocks  ! 
Instead  of  making  God  the  support  of  his  throne, 
filling  the  kingdom  with  horses  and  chariots  of  war ! 
Instead  of  instructing  and  enlightening  his  people, 
trying  to  extend  his  sceptre  over  the  wide  deserts, 
and  making  those  fierce,  wandering,  ignorant  tribes 
of  the  desert  a  part  of  his  people  !  And  talking  of 
taking  in  Ethiopia,  thou  sayest !  Why,  Shelesh,  I 
am  old  and  gray-headed.  Thou  art  young.  I  have 
ever  lived  here  at  the  foot  of  Horeb,  and  have  never 
gone  to  Jerusalem,  except  to  worship.  But,  mark 
me  !  I  shall  not  long  lie  in  my  grave,  ere  the  curse 
will  begin  to  fall  upon  our  people.  I  fear  that  the 
sceptre  will  fall  from  the  hand  of  David's  line,  and 
bright  jewels  fall  from  his  crown.  1  fear  that  Jero- 
boam, the  son  of  Nebat,  or  some  other  scourge,  will 
be  let  loose,  to  bring  ruin  over  these  tribes.  God 
can  make  the  very  temple,  wherein  thou  trustest, 
the  cause  of  disunion.  He  can  give  these  chariot- 
cities  and  these  war-preparations  into  the  hands  of 
a  usurper,  and  they  will  only  increase  his  power. 
And  that  great  territory !  a  bond  of  union !  Why,  • 
the  wild  sands  will  blow  there,  and  the  robber  tribes 


HELEM    AND    SHELESH.  55 

will  rove  there,  and  it  will  only  be  held  for  a  short 
time.  That  Tadmor  of  the  wilderness  will  become 
a  pile  of  ruins,  where  the  traveller  shall  stop  to  ad- 
mire the  broken  columns,  and  hear  the  serpent  hiss, 
and  startle  the  owls  and  the  bats.  "  Them  that 
honor  me  I  will  honor,"  saith  the  Lord.  And  when 
the  plain  commands  of  God  are  trampled  on  by  the 
ruler  of  his  people,  he  will  cause  the  throne  of  power 
to  crumble,  and  the  sceptre  to  break,  and  will  roll  in 
woes  like  a  river. 

Shelesh.    Thou  speakest  in  harshness. 

Helem.  Not  in  harshness,  but  in  sorrow,  my  son. 
For  I  know  that  the  very  mercies  which  we  have  en- 
joyed will,  if  perverted,  bring  a  curse  equally  great. 
But  it  is  time  for  the  evening  sacrifice.  The  shadows 
of  Horeb  have  gone  over  the  valley.  Let  us  turn 
our  faces  towards  beloved  Jerusalem,  and  worship. 


THE  DEPARTURE: 

OR,  INCIDENTS  IN  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  WAR. 


DID  my  reader  ever  see  an  "  Indian  summer,"  as 
we,  in  all  the  northern  parts  of  the  United  States, 
witness  it  every  autumn  ?  It  comes  late  in  autumn, 

jr  the  rich  glories  of  summer  are  past,  —  after  the 
have  yielded  their  fruits,  and  their  foliage  is 
either  gone  or  touched  and  painted  by  the  frosts. 
The  sky  wears  a  robe  of  softest  blue,  and  the  most 
delicious  haze  rests  upon  the  landscape  ;  the  winds 
sleep,  and  the  clouds  float  like  piles  of  pearl,  crested 
and  fluted  and  polished ;  and  though  the  green  of 
nature  is  faded,  yet  Nature  herself  is  robed  in  a  love- 
liness, calm  and  indescribable.  It  is  Summer,  giv- 
ing us  her  last  smiles  ere  she  falls  into  the  cold 
grave  which  Winter  will  dig,  covering  up  her  chil- 
dren in  a  winding-sheet  of  snow,  and  transfixing  her 
streams  with  his  cold,  icy  spear.  This  short  period 
used  to  be  seized  upon  by  the  Indian  to  complete 
whatever  might  be  necessary  about  his  wigwam  or 
traps,  or  preparation  for  winter.  Hence  it  has  al- 


THE    DEPARTURE.  57 

ways  been  called  "  the  Indian  summer."  The  squir- 
rels come  out  and  do  their  last  foraging ;  the  wild- 
fowls take  their  last  looks  upon  the  Northern  lakes 
before  leaving,  and  the  timid  deer  comes  out  of  the 
forest  to  graze  in  the  warm  sun,  ere  he  exchanges 
his  summer  diet  for  bushes  and  shoots. 

It  was  early  in  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  Novem- 
ber, 1765,  on  one  of  these  lovely  days,  that  a  canoe 
was  seen  coming  down  the  Piscataqua  River,  in  New 
Hampshire,  and  making  towards  the  then  little  town 
of  Portsmouth.  The  canoe  was  made  of  a  single 
pine-tree,  and  though  she  moved  slowly  and  heavily, 
yet  she  was  not  ungraceful.  In  her  bow  was  stuck 
the  waving  branch,  fresh  from  a  young  pine  ;  and 
in  the  stern  sat  a  youth  alone,  about  twenty  years 
old.  He  was  dressed  in  homespun  and  home-made 
clothes,  with  a  beaver-skin  cap,  around  which  was  a 
black  piece  of  crape,  which  hung  streaming  out  be- 
hind. On  his  arms,  just  above  each  elbow,  was  an- 
other huge  strip  of  old  crape.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  in  deep  mourning,  or  at  least  affecting  to  be. 
He  landed  just  above  the  village,  drew  his  canoe  out 
of  the  water,  and  made  his  way  into  the  town.  Hard- 
ly had  he  entered  it,  before  he  met  a  girl  about  six- 
teen years  of  age,  tripping  her  way  hastily  along  the 
street,  with  a  large  portfolio  in  her  arms.  He  hard- 
ly noticed  her,  till  she  half  paused,  and  with  a  comi- 
cal look  said :  — 

"  So,  Henry  Buel,  you  have  come  to  be  a  fool 
with  the  rest  of  us  !  " 

"  Why,  Kitty !  is  that  you  ?  " 


58  SUMB1ER    GLEANINGS. 

"  It  's  me,  or  my  ghost.  But  what  are  you  here 
for?" 

"Why,  to  attend  the  funeral,  to  be  sure.  I  have 
come  down  out  of  the  woods  to  buiy  the  dead,"  and 
then  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  may  be  to  see  a  resur- 
rection, too  ! " 

"  What  a  strange  fellow  you  are  !  I  suppose  you 
would  go  further  to  see  this  mock  funeral,  than  if  all 
the  rest  of  us  should  die,  or  even  kill  ourselves  for 
your  sport ! " 

"  Now  don't  be  trying  that  to  see,  Kitty.  But 
where  are  you  going  so  early  ?  " 

"  O,  I  am  going  with  my  father.  But  you  are 
such  a  Whig  that  I  'm  afraid  to  tell  you  any  thing. 
But  my  father  is  going  to  his  '  log  cottage,'  as  he 
calls  it,  till  these  times  have  gone  past,  and  the  peo- 
ple are  ready  to  obey  the  Bible  and  honor  the  king, 
as  you  Puritans  might  read,  if  you  chose  !  " 

"  Well,  we  won't  quarrel  now,  dear  Kitty,  because 
I  know  you  think  just  as  I  do  about  these  things, 
and  —  " 

"You  don't  know  any  such  thing,  Mr.  Henry 
Buel,"  and  she  tossed  her  pretty  head  most  scorn- 
fully. "  Whether  I  do  or  not,"  she  added,  after  a 
pause,  "I  am  glad  that  my  poor  father  is  going 
where  he  won't  be  so  vexed,  and  where  none  of  you 
naughty  Whigs  can  find  him." 

"  He  must  go  a  great  way  off,  if  he  means  to  get 
rid  of  one,  —  at  any  rate." 

The  beautiful  girl  blushed,  stammered  something, 
shook  her  little  'hand,  and  went  on  her  way.  Just 


THE    DEPARTURE.  59 

then  the  sun  began  to  peep  from  the  east,  and  the 
moment  his  golden  form  was  seen,  the  bells  from  the 
town  began  to  toll  slowly  and  solemnly.  Black  rib- 
bons were  hung  on  the  door-handles,  and  muffled 
drums  began  to  beat.  At  an  early  hour  the  crowds 
began  to  assemble  near  the  old  court-house,  and  long 
before  noon  it  seemed  as  if  "  every  body"  was  there. 
It  was  the  day  appointed  by  royal  proclamation  for 
the  first  distribution  of  the  stamp-paper,  forced  upon 
the  Colonies  by  the  British  Parliament,  and  so  indig- 
nantly rejected  by  the  Colonies.  The  countenances 
of  all  evinced  trouble,  fear,  and  a  scowl  of  daring. 
About  eleven  o'clock  the  marshals  had  formed  the 
procession.  The  pall-bearers  had  gone  into  the 
court-house,  and  all  stood  silent.  All  had  some 
grave  badge  of  mourning  about  their  persons.  The 
bells  had  not  stopped  tolling  since  sunrise.  Present- 
ly there  came  out,  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  men, 
a  new  bier,  on  which  was  placed  a  superb  coffin.  It 
was  richly  ornamented,  with  a  drooping  eagle,  spread- 
ing his  feeble  wings  over  it.  On  the  coffin-lid,  in 
large  letters,  was  printed  "  LIBERTY,  .AGED  CXLV. 
YEARS,"  dating  her  birth  in  1620,  at  the  landing  of* 
the  Pilgrims  on  Plymouth  Rock.  With  slow  tread, 
and  muffled  drum,  and  tolling  bell,  the  coffin  was 
carried  to  the  grave,  and  let  down  gently,  amid  the 
firing  of  minute-guns.  After  resting  in  the  grave, 
an  oration  was  pronounced  over  this  friend  of  the 
people,  eloquent  and  stirring,  and  terribly  severe  upon 
the  authors  of  her  death.  Scarcely  had  the  oration 
closed,  and  they  were  preparing  to  fill  up  the  grave, 


60  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

when  our  young  canoe-man  leaped  up  on  the  dirt 
which  came  out  of  the  grave,  and  cried,  — 

"  Hold,  hold  !  I  see  her  move  !  She  ain't  dead 
yet !  She  's  only  taken  too  much  of  their  doctor- 
stuff!  She  's  just  awaking  !  Don't  bury  her  ! " 

Like  wildfire  the  spark  caught  and  spread.  There 
was  a  loud  shout,  and  up  came  the  coffin.  The 
drums  struck  up  a  lively  beat,  the  procession  was  re- 
formed, the  badges  were  torn  off  the  arms  and  thrown 
into  the  grave ;  the  bells  rang  aloud  with  a  merry 
peal,  and  "  LIBERTY  REVIVED  "  was  hastily  scrawled 
and  stuck  over  the  coffin,  while  the  multitudes 
marched  and  shouted  through  the  streets.  The 
young  man  who  applied  the  torch  at  the  right  mo- 
ment, whether  by  design  or  accident,  was  pressed 
into  the  selectest  of  the  company,  and  became  art 
once  quite  a  hero.  He  bore  it  all  very  meekly,  and 
the  ladies  all  declared  the  young  fellow  was  better 
educated  than  he  was  dressed.  The  day  was  closed 
with  a  great  supper,  at  which  all  partook  who  chose, 
with  patriotic  speeches,  sentiments,  and  prophecies 
as  to  the  future.  At  a  late  hour,  Henry  Buel  sought 
his  canoe,  and,  leaving  the  town  far  behind,  paddled 
far  up  the  beautiful  Piscataqua,  —  now  starlit  in  the 
centre,  and  shaded  by  overhanging  trees  on  either 
bank. 

Several  years  after  this  event,  a  part  of  the  army 
under  General  Gates  was  encamped  in  the  valley  of 
the  Hudson,  watching  the  movements  of  Burgoyne, 
previous  to  the  battle  in  which  he  surrendered.  It 
was  a  small  number  of  men  who  were  selected  es- 


THE    DEPARTURE.  61 

pecially  to  take  the  post  of  observation.  As  they 
were  surrounded  by  hostile  Indians,  it  was  also  a  post 
of  danger.  They  were  encamped  on  a  side-hill, 
sloping  eastward,  down  to  the  river.  On  the  north 
and  south  the  country  had  been  cleared  up  ;  but  on 
the  west  lay  a  forest,  unexplored,  and  which  reached 
back  to  the  Great  Lakes.  When  the  new-made  sol- 
dier first  arrived  at  the  camp,  he  saw  what  seemed 
to  be  careless  gayety  and  leisure  ;  but  he  soon  found 
that,  behind  the  most  glittering  uniforms  and  parades, 
there  were  such  things  as  poor  and  insufficient  food, 
lodgings  on  the  cold  ground,  without  a  covering, 
wounds  that  were  not  dressed,  sickness  without  nurs- 
ing, and  distresses  without  alleviation,  and  often  with- 
out compassion.  Every  selfish  feeling  of  the  heart 
had  full  play.  There  were  watchings  and  march- 
ings amid  autumnal  storms  and  winter  sleet,  and 
often  the  officers  were  unfeeling,  and  even  inhuman. 
About  mid-day,  a  solitary  soldier  was  seen  returning 
to  the  camp,  without  arms  of  any  kind.  He  had 
been  off  to  a  log-house  almost  four  miles  distant,  but 
why  he  had  been  there  no  one  knew.  He  was 
thoughtful,  sober,  and  apparently  greatly  perplexed. 
He  was  a  noble  fellow,  commonly  known  as  "  the 
Puritan,"  because  he  read  his  Bible  regularly,  never 
used  profane  language,  never  drank,  and  never  quar- 
relled. Yet  all  knew  that  he  was  no  coward.  In  the 
daily  drill,  leaping  ditches  and  fences,  carrying  bur- 
dens, firing  at  the  target,  or  acting  the  scout,  he  had 
no  superior.  For  the  last  few  days  there  had  been 
quite  a  stir  in  the  little  encampment,  by  a  danger 


62  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

new  and  mysterious.  It  was  found  that  the  sentinel 
at  the  stand  near  the  woods,  on  the  west,  had  been 
missing  every  night.  No  traces  of  him  were  to  be 
found.  They  could  not  have  deserted,  because  the 
patrols  at  the  north  and  south  would  have  intercepted 
them,  and  because  they  would  not  dare  to  attempt  to 
penetrate  an  interminable  forest  on  the  west.  Some 
of  them,  too,  were  such  characters  as  would  never 
desert.  For  nearly  a  dozen  nights,  the  sentinel  had 
thus  mysteriously  disappeared.  The  men  were  not 
ashamed  to  refuse  to  take  the  post.  Some  thought 
the  Evil  One  had  too  much  to  do  with  it.  The  hu- 
mane but  perplexed  commander  next  called  for  vol- 
unteers, and  none  but  the  bravest  offered  themselves. 
But  the  result  was  the  same.  No  braver  men  lived 
than  some  who  were  thus  taken  away.  As  the  sol- 
dier whom  I  have  mentioned  slowly  bent  his  steps 
towards  his  tent,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  he  was 
met  by  his  Captain,  with  a  face  hardly  less  anxious. 
He  thus  addressed  him  :  — 

"  Well,  Buel,  you  have  got  back  quick.  Have 
you  made  any  discovery  ?  Our  Colonel  is  confound- 
ed, and  relies  on  you  to  ferret  out  the  mystery,  and 
intimates  that  it  will  be  as  good  as  a  captain's  com- 
mission, if  you  can  do  it." 

"  Truce  to  his  intimations,  Captain.  I  have  ob- 
tained no  great  light,  and  yet  enough  to  help  me  to 
form  a  theory.  I  have  determined  to  volunteer  to 
stand  sentinel  to-night,  provided  the  Colonel  will  let 
me  make  my  own  conditions." 

"  What  are  these  ?  " 


THE   DEPARTURE.  b3 

"  I  will  name  them  before  my  comrades  when  we 
muster." 

"  Very  well." 

Just  before  night,  the  little  company  were  paraded, 
and  volunteers  for  the  folorn  post  were  called  for. 
Buel  at  once  stepped  out  of  the  ranks  and  said,  "  I 
will  take  the  post  on  three  conditions.  That  there 
is  a  mysterious  and  certain  danger,  is  very  plain. 
That  we  are  all  afraid  to  take  the  stand,  is  equally 
plain.  I  trust  I  shall  not  be  thought  to  forfeit  the 
character  of  a  soldier  if  I  insist  on  my  conditions." 

"  Name  them." 

"  First,  my  post  shall  be  nearer  the  woods  ;  that 
is,  I  will  have  four  trees  this  side  of  me,  instead  of 
having  them  all  to  the  west  of  me." 

"  Well,  I  think  the  Colonel  won't  object  to  that." 

"  Second,  that  I  may  blacken  the  barrel  and  bayo- 
net of  my  gun.'? 

"  I  think,  too,  that  may  be  allowed." 

"  Third,  that  I  may  whistle  on  my  post." 

"  Whistle  on  your  post  !  A  sentinel  whistle  on 
his  post !  " 

"  Yes,  Sir,  I  mean  just  so,  and  I  deem  this  so  es- 
sential to  my  safety,  that  I  cannot  volunteer  with- 
out it." 

"  Stand  to  your  arms,"  .shouted  the  Captain,  and 
turned  upon  his  heel  for  the  quarters  of  the  com- 
mander. In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  and  dis- 
missed the  company.  "Buel,"  said  he,  after  the 
men  had  retired,  "  I  believe  you  or  the  Colonel,  or 
both,  are  crazy,  or  fools,  and  perhaps  both.  The 
Colonel  says  you  may  whistle  softly  and  Zow?." 


64  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Very  well,  sir,  that  is  all  I  ask  for." 
About  ten  o'clock  the  soldier  stood  leaning  upon 
his  gun.  He  had  blackened  the  barrel,  and  had  con- 
trived to  conceal  his  uniform,  and  even  to  shade  his 
face.  He  had  written  two  long  letters,  which  he 
committed  to  a  comrade,  with  a  charge  to  forward 
them,  provided  he  never  returned.  He  had  also  read 
his  Bible,  and  even,  with  a  few  like  himself,  had 
spent  a  little  season  in  prayer.  The  proper  guard 
accompanied  him  as  usual  to  his  post.  It  was  plain 
that  they  never  expected  to  see  him  again.  He 
merely  said,  "  Officer  of  the  guard,  if  my  musket  is 
heard,  I  trust  the  guard  will  lose  no  time  in  coming 
to  my  relief." 

"  You  may  be  assured  of  that,  my  good  fellow." 
The  soldier  shouldered  his  musket,  and  carefully 
kicked  every  dry  stick  out  of  the  path  which  he  was 
to  pace.  The  night  was  profoundly  dark  and  still. 
At  every  turn  he  whistled  some  snatches  of  a  tune, 
now  emitting  a  loud  note,  and  now  sinking  so  low  as 
to  be  unheard,  and  at  periods  so  uncertain  that  no 
one  could  calculate  for  a  moment,  by  the  whistling, 
precisely  where  the  soldier  was.  He  had  also  taken 
off  his  shoes,  and  walked  in  his  stockings.  He  had 
walked  his  post  nearly  two  hours,  when  he  noticed 
the  grunting  and  the  tread  of  a  large  hog  among  the 
bushes.  His  first  thought  was,  "  Why  is  not  that 
fellow  at  home  and  abed  ?  "  The  second  thought 
was,  "  She  said  so  !  "  As  he  walked  and  whistled  by 
turns,  the  hog  evidently  worked  along  nearer.  But 
as  yet  he  could  not  see  him.  The  animal  rooted 


THE    DEPARTURE.  65 

and  grunted.  After  a  while  the  soldier  fixed  his  eye 
on  the  hog,  nor  did  he  for  an  instant  take  it  off, 
sometimes  walking,  and  sometimes  halting.  About 
ten  feet  from  where  the  soldier  stood  was  a  small 
log,  lying  parallel  with  his  path  or  beat.  The  mo- 
ment the  hog  attempted  to  step  over  the  log,  he  no- 
ticed that  he  did  not  lift  his  foot  naturally.  It  was 
done  too  carefully.  In  an  instant  he  brought  his 
gun  to  his  shoulder,  and  the  woods  echoed  long  and 
loud  at  the  report.  The  soldier  stepped  back  a  few 
paces,  from  the  spot  where  the  flash  of  the  gun  re- 
vealed him,  and  commenced  reloading.  At  that  in- 
stant a  groan  unlike  that  of  a  dying  hog  was  heard, 
and  the  alarm  drum  beat,  to  call  out  the  guard  to  his 
relief.  The  guard  came  upon  the  run,  and  met  the 
sentinel. 

"  Buel,  all  well  ?  " 

"  All  well,  sir." 

"  At  what  did  you  discharge  your  arms  ?  " 

"  We  will  see,  sir"  ;  and  he  led  the  guard  to  his 
mark. 

"  So  you  have  actually  shot  a  hog  in  your  ter- 
ror ! " 

He  gave  the  hog  a  kick,  and  off  came  the  hog- 
skin,  revealing  a  monstrous  Indian,  fulLsix  feet  and 
four  inches  long  !  He  was  dead,  and  the  mystery 
was  solved.  He  had  crept  up  to  the  sentinel  in  the 
disguise  of  a  hog,  night  after  night,  till  he  was  so 
near,  that  with  a  spring  he  could  leap  upon  him  and 
throttle  him,  and  carry  him  off  dead.  Buel  received 
the  congratulations  of  his  comrades,  the  praises  of 
6* 


66  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

his  officers,  and  it  was  the  first  step  in  his  promo- 
tions, which  followed  in  rapid  succession. 

Now  for  the  links  to  our  story.  Among  the  first 
who  went  with  Mason  to  his  grant  on  the  Piscataqua 
River  was  Egbert  Hamilton,  a  man  of  fortune,  a 
daring  spirit,  and  who  loved  excitement  for  its  own 
sake,  and  dangers  for  the  sake  of  their  excitements. 
He  was  a  thorough  Englishman  in  all  his  habits, 
views,  and  feelings,  attached  to  the  Episcopal  form 
of  worship,  prejudiced  against  Puritanism,  and  ready 
to  die  for  his  king.  That  the  king  could  do  no 
wrong,  was  a  prime  article  in  his  creed.  He  fixed 
his  residence  at  Portsmouth,  where,  with  a  lovely 
wife  and  a  little  girl,  he  created  a  pleasant  home.  In 
the  same  neighborhood  lived  a  sturdy,  single-hearted 
Puritan  by  the  name  of  Jehiel  Buel.  He  was  a 
thrifty,  well-to-do-in-the-world  sort  of  a  man,  who 
began  his  Sabbath  precisely  at  sunset  on  Saturday 
evening,  who  never  cheated  a  human  being  out  of 
a  cent,  who  was  a  devout  worshipper,  an  humble 
Christian,  and  an  iron  Whig.  If  Egbert  Hamilton 
knelt  with  his  prayer-book,  Jehiel  Buel  stood  up  and 
uncovered  his  head,  and  let  nothing  come  between 
him  and  his  God  but  his  Redeemer.  If  Hamilton 
was  an  uncompromising  Tory,  Buel  was  a  Whig, 
bred  in  the  bone.  Yet  they  lived  happily  side  by 
side,  their  families  occasionally  mingling  together  at 
the  fireside,  and  their  children  conning  their  lessons 
together  in  the  same  little  log  school-house.  But  time 
produces  great  changes.  Egbert  Hamilton  buried 
his  family,  —  all  excepting  Kitty,  who  was  left  to 


THE    DEPARTURE.  67 

him  as  a  bright  sunbeam  in  a  dark  night.  Buel,  too, 
had  been  called  to  mourning.  He  had  been  stripped 
of  family  and  property,  save  one  son,  Henry,  and  a 
daughter,  two  years  younger.  In  consequence  of 
his  misfortunes,  he  had  left  the  town  and  gone  up  the 
river  and  cleared  up  a  wild  farm,  where  he  was  liv- 
ing at  the  time  when  our  history  commences.  It 
was  from  this  farm  that  Henry  came  down  in  his 
canoe  when  we  first  find  him  attending  the  funeral 
of  Liberty.  The  excitement  of  the  times,  which  had 
Boston  for  its  centre,  was  very  great.  It  reached  and 
thrilled  every  dweller  in  the  land.  One  pulse  seemed 
to  beat  through  the  nation.  When  Hamilton  found 
that  all  around  him  were  going  to  be  Whigs,  and  that 
he  must  be  left  alone,  he  resolved  to  leave  Ports- 
mouth, and  go  to  a  more  loyal  part  of  the  country. 
New  York  at  that  time  seemed  to  be  more  passive  to 
the  king  and  his  ministers  than  the  rest  of  the  land, 
and,  owning  a  small  estate  on  the  Hudson  River,  he 
took  his  child  and  fled  to  find  quiet  and  repose.  He 
actually  left  his  comfortable  home  on  the  morning 
of  the  popular  outbreak  which  we  have  described. 
Henry  and  Kitty  had  known  each  other  at  school. 
They  were  very  young,  and  probably  had  no  very  in- 
timate knowledge  of  each  other.  But  it  is  natural 
for  the  heart  to  indulge  in  day-dreams,  and  these 
usually  commence  early  and  last  late  in  life.  The 
visions  which  dance  before  the  eyes  of  the  imagi- 
nation lie  forward  of  us  in  youth,  and  back  of  us 
in  age. 

When  the  first  tidings  of  shedding  of  blood  at 


bO  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

Lexington  spread  through  New  England,  it  caused 
every  young  man  to  start  up,  seize  his  gun,  and 
hasten  down  from  the  hills  and  forests  to  the  scene 
of  action.  When  they  reached  Portsmouth  and  vi- 
cinity, Mr.  Buel  and  his  son  were  both  gone  up  the 
river  on  business.  But  his  sister  at  home  felt  the 
shock  no  less  than  the  rest.  She  knew  that,  on  his 
return  the  next  morning,  Henry  would  be  off.  But 
what  could  he  do  for  clothing  ?  It  so  happened  that 
he  was  deficient  in  pantaloons,  and  neither  garments 
nor  materials  could  be  bought.  What  shall  the  pa- 
triotic girl  do  ?  She  gets  a  dish  of  oats,  goes  out  and 
calls  the  sheep,  catches  one,  and  with  her  shears, 
takes  off  half  of  its  fleece.  How  shall  she  color  it  ? 
She  hesitates  not,  but  goes  and  catches  a  black  sheep 
and  shears  it  in  the  same  way.  This  she  washes, 
dries,  cards,  spins,  weaves,  and,  by  sitting  up  all  night, 
actually  had  the  pantaloons  cut  and  made'  up  ready 
for  her  brother  by  sunrise  the  next  morning !  *  On  the 
return  of  her  brother,  he  snatched  his  gun  and  pan- 
taloons, kissed  his  wearied,  weeping  sister,  and  went 
to  the  gathering  of  the  people  in  the  day  of  their  peril. 
From  this  time  onward,  he  had  been  in  the  army, 
sometimes  almost  naked,  sometimes  almost  starving, 
but  never  flinching.  Like  thousands  and  thousands, 
he  served  his  country  without  rewards,  or  honors, 
or  the  hopes  of  either.  When  we  next  introduce 
Henry  Buel,  he  is  in  the  army  at  an  advanced  post 
of  observation,  as  we  have  narrated.  About  a  week 

*  A  literal  fact. 


THE    DEPARTURE.  69 

before  the  event  of  his  standing  sentinel,  in  one  of 
his  lonely  scouting  excursions,  he  had  fallen  in  with  a 
large,  strongly  built  log-house,  which,  from  watching 
in  concealment  one  whole  day,  he  was  sure  was  the 
resort  of  Tories,  Indians,  and  even  British  officers. 
By  some  means  or  other,  to  his  utter  amazement,  he 
found  it  was  the  habitation  of  his  father's  old  neigh- 
bor, Egbert  Hamilton  !  By  some  equally  mysterious 
process,  too,  he  discovered  that  his  old  schoolmate, 
Kitty,  inhabited  the  cottage !  How  he  contrived  to 
meet  her  alone,  and  actually  to  speak  to  her,  to 
shake  her  little  hand,  and  to  see  the  tear  of  glad- 
ness that  dropped  from  her  eye,  I  am  sure  is  equal- 
ly mysterious.  For  years  they  had  been  separat- 
ed, neither  knowing  where  the  other  was,  and  nei- 
ther expecting  ever  to  see  the  other  again.  And 
now  they  met,  —  he,  a  soldier  risking  his  life  daily 
for  his  country,  and  she,  the  daughter  of  a  most  de- 
termined Tory  !  She  had  too  much  filial  reverence 
to  compromit  her  father  by  word  or  deed,  and  about 
him  or  his  company  she  would  not  utter  a  single 
word.  It  came  to  pass  also,  that,  under  the  pretence 
of  scouting,  Henry  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
solitary  dwelling  often,  almost  daily,  and  by  some 
means  or  other  it  so  happened  that  he  seldom  came 
away  without  at  least  a  short  interview  with  Kitty. 
In  these  chance  meetings,  they  never  talked  of  any 
thing  but  politics,  —  the  theme  of  the  nation !  It 
was  plain  that  Kitty  knew  more  than  she  chose  to 
tell  him.  But  when,  on  the  last  meeting^  he  men- 
tioned the  mysterious  death  of  his  companions,  she 


70  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

became  sober ;  and  when  he  announced  that  he  pro- 
posed to  take  the  dangerous  post  that  night,  she 
most  earnestly  besought  him  not  to  do  so,  even  with 
tears.  When  she  found  that  nothing  would  deter 
him,  she  merely  hinted,  that,  if  she  were  to  stand 
there,  she  would  shoot  the  first  thing  that  came  in 
sight,  whether  it  were  a  dog,  a  hog,,  or  any  other 
animal.  The  hint  was  apparently  undesigned,  and 
yet  it  was  pondering  on  that  hint,  probably,  which 
led  him  to  do  as  he  did,  and  thus  save  his  life. 

Some  days  after  the  event  mentioned,  Buel  was 
out  as  a  scout  in  the  deep  forest.  He  had  been  to 
the  lines  of  the  enemy  and  obtained  all  the  informa- 
tion in  his  power,  and  was  on  his  return.  He  had 
halted  by  a  small  brook,  and  had  set  his  rifle  against 
a  tree,  that  he  might  eat  his  light  dinner,  when  the 
rattle  of  the  rattlesnake  struck  his  ear.  It  was  inter- 
mitted a  few  moments,  and  then  repeated.  Buel 
gave  three  very  low  whistles,  when  an  Indian  rose 
up  from  a  thick  bunch  of  bushes  and  came  to  him, 
looking  sharply  and  cautiously  in  every  direction. 
At  the  motion  of  the  Indian,  Buel  filled  his  canteen 
with  water  from  the  rivulet,  and  in  silence  followed 
up  to  the  top  of  a  steep  hill,  from  which  they  could 
see  in  every  direction.  Having  made  a  screen  with 
the  boughs  of  the  hemlock,  so  that  no  one  could  see 
them  first,  they  -sat  down  together.  Not  a  word  had 
been  spoken. 

"  Well,  Cassiheeno,  I  thought  we  had  lost  you. 
I  have  not  seen  you  for  nearly  three  weeks  ! 
Where  have  you  been  ?  "  In  saying  this,  Buel  kept 


THE   DEPARTURE.  71 

his  eye  on  the  face  of  the  Indian,  while  his  hand 
drew  his  rifle  nearer  to  him.  The  motion  did  not 
escape  the  quick  eye  of  the  Indian.  He  was  silent 
an  instant,  and  then  merely  said, — 

"  I  very  sick.     I  so  sick  again,  I  will  die." 

"  Sick,  sick  !  What  was  the  matter  ?  "  And 
now,  for  the  first  time,  Buel  saw  that  he  looked  pale 
and  feeble. 

Lifting  his  blanket,  and  showing  a  terrible  wound 
in  his  left  shoulder,  he  replied  :  — 

"  I  try  come  to  you,  and  tell  you  great  thing, 
secret  thing,  and  they  see  me,  and  shoot  at  me.  I 
most  die.  I  lie  lone  in  woods.  I  just  creep  out  now 
to  find  you,  and  tell  you  more  strange  thing." 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,"  —  every  suspicious  look 
gone  from  his  face,  — "  eat  my  dinner.  You  look 
faint.  Have  you  had  any  food  to-day  ?  " 

"  No,  nor  three  more  day." 

"  Then,  for  mercy's  sake,  eat." 

But  the  Indian  would  not  eat,  till  Buel  had  agreed 
to  share  the  scanty  provisions  with  him.  When  they 
had  concluded  their  hasty  repast,  the  Indian  pro- 
ceeded :  — 

"  When  I  leave  you,  I  soon  learn  from  Canada 
Indian  about  kill  soldier.  I  go  like  one  strange  In- 
dian 'mong  'em.  I  talk  St.  Francois  language.  I 
hear  'em  talk  how  Big  Moose,  Lorette  Indian,  put  on 
hog-skin,  catch  sentinel,  choke  him,  get  scalp,  get 
plenty  money.  Then  I  come  towards  you  ;  when 
English  see  me,  think  belong  to  you,  and  shoot  at 
me.  I  run,  and  he  never  know  he  hit  me.  But  I 
no  could  come  and  tell  you  about  Big  Moose." 


72  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Well,  Cassiheeno,  Big  Moose  was  shot,  and 
that 's  all  over  now." 

"  No,  not  all  over,  —  not  all  over  yet,"  said  he, 
sorrowfully. 

"  Why,  what 's  to  pay  now  ?  A  soldier  of  our 
guard  shot  the  fool  in  the  hog-skin." 

"  And  that  soldier  was  you." 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?  "  said  Buel  in  sur- 
prise. 

"I  tell  you.  Last  night  I  creep  up  'mong  In- 
dians. I  hear  'em  talk,  and  plan.  They  swear 
hard.  They  say  Miss  Kitty  tell  you  about  hog-skin, 
for  they  watch  and  see  you  talk  with  him  in  alder- 
bush.  They  say  they  kill  you,  and  take  Miss  Kitty, 
carry  him  o*ff  prisoner,  (make  father  believe  they 
Mohawks,)  get  him  in  woods,  then  kill  him  with 
tomahawk.  They  terrible  Indians,  take  revenge 
when  much  mad.  Very  much  mad  now  !  " 

The  soldier  and  the  Indian  parted.  The  former 
hastened  to  his  own  camp,  while  the  latter  crept 
away  among  the  thick  bushes.  On  reaching  the 
camp,  Buel  found  the  men  all  under  arms.  As  he 
came  near,  the  Colonel  beckoned  to  him  to  advance. 
He  came  near,  made  the  military  movement  with 
his  rifle,  and  stood  erect. 

"  Buel,"  said  the  good  Colonel,  "  for  your  long, 
tried,  and  faithful  services,  the  American  Congress 
have  been  pleased  to  promote  you.  Soldiers,  salute 
Lieutenant  Buel." 

The  drums  beat  a  hearty  salute,  and  his  own  com- 
pany cheered.  Tears  stood  in  the^eyes  of  the  young 


THE   DEPARTURE.  73 

officer.     He  was  immediately  summoned  to  the  tent 
of  the  commander. 

"  Lieutenant  Buel,  I  must  now  send  you  on  a 
secret,  important,  and  rapid  despatch  to  Boston.  No 
time  must  be  lost.  You  must  set  out  this  very  night. 
Can  you  be  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  —  though  I  have  some  things  to  com- 
municate to  you,  sir,  and  ask  your  advice  and  aid." 

"  What  now  ?     No  folly,  I  hope  !  " 

The  Lieutenant  then  went  into  a  history  of  his 
life,  of  that  of  the  Hamiltons,  and  ended  by  telling 
him  how  he  got  the  hint  from  Kitty  about  the  hog, 
and  the  danger  that  now  surrounded  the  poor  girl  in 
consequence,  and  no  less  earnestly  he  sought  the 
kindness  of  the  Colonel  in  behalf  of  £assiheeno. 
Very  patiently  did  the  officer  hear  it  all  through, 
and  then  said  :  — 

"  Buel,  this  is  a  bad  business.  But  I  don't  see 
that  any  one  has  been  to  blame.  I  might  have 
known  that  some  woman  must  have  put  it  into  your 
head  about  that  Indian's  disguise.  Stay;  can  you 
say,  upon  the  honor  of  a  soldier,  that  this  is  no  love 
affair  between  you  and  the  girl  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  no  allusion  to  any  such 
thing  has  ever  passed  between  us." 

"  Very  well.  I  only  wonder  how  the  daughter  of 
a  high  Tory  can  be  so  much  of  a  Whig ;  that 's  all. 
Now  there  is,  to  my  mind,  but  one  course.  You 
must  go  and  persuade  that  girl  to  save  her  life  by 
going  with  you  to  the  East.  Mind,  now,  this  must 
be  no  runaway  match  between  you  and  the  girl ; 
7 


74  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

first,  because  we  can't  spare  you  a  day  for  such  af- 
fairs*; and,  second,  because  I  have  too  much  regard 
for  the  fifth  commandment  to  encourage  or  coun- 
tenance such  doings.  I  am  a  father  of  daughters 
myself.  Take  her  to  her  and  your  friends  at  or 
near  Boston,  for  these  savages  will  have  no  mercy 
on  her.  If  you  can  persuade  her  to  go,  the  carriage 
that  came  this  morning  to  the  camp  to  convey  the 
sick  lieutenant  to  his  home,  but  which,  as  you  know, 
is  too  late,  he  being  dead,  and  you  in  his  place,  shall 
carry  you  to  Albany,  and  thence  you  will  go  on 
horseback.  Now  hasten  "about  this  business." 

Lieutenant  Buel  drew  his  girdle  tight  about  him, 
and  in  five  minutes  was  taking  the  Indian  lope,  on 
his  way  to  the  log-house.  By  means  of  his  own,  he 
obtained  an  interview  with  the  poor  girl. 

Our  readers  must  understand  that  between  Troy 
and  the  beautiful  village  of  Glen's  Falls  the  tree 
still  stands  under  which  Miss  M'Crea  was  so  inhu- 
manly murdered  by  the  Indians,  and  whose  history 
will  long  thrill  the  human  heart.  That  one  murder 
sent  a  shudder  through  the  land,  and  made  the  im- 
pression deep,  that  no  innocence  or  loveliness  could 
protect  from  the  terrible  tomahawk  and  scalping- 
knife.  The  mother  clasped  her  babe  to  her  bosom 
in  terror,  lest  on  the  morrow  she  should  be  called  to 
see  it  dashed  against  the  wall,  or  writhing  on  the 
arrow ;  and  the  maiden  drew  her  zone  tight  about 
her,  not  knowing  but  she  was  girding  herself  up  for 
death.  I  mention  this  to  account  for  the  terror  into 
which  the  tidings  of  the  young  officer  threw  Kitty  ; 


THE    DEPARTURE.  75 

for  it  was  just  after  Miss  M'Crea's  terrible  fate,  that 
she  was  informed  that  a  similar  fate  awaited  her. 
She  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  could  not  reveal  any 
thing  to  her  father  without  endangering  his  life. 
She  hoped  that  things  would  come  to  a  crisis  in  a 
few  weeks,  when  she  could  return  safe  and  sound, 
and  tell  him  all.  What  seemed  to  be  the  most 
dreadful  part  of  her  trial  was,  that  she  must  leave 
him  ignorant  of  her  motives,  her  course,  her  protec- 
tion, or  her  plans.  With  many  tears,  she  at  last 
yielded,  —  "  for  all  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for 
his  life,"  —  and  agreed  that  at  midnight  she  would 
be  ready  to  go  with  her  old  schoolmate  and  friend. 
She  knew  nothing  of  his  promotion. 

A  little  past  midnight,  the  old  carriage  which  had 
so  opportunely  come  from  Albany  stood  near  the 
door  of  the  cabin,  among  the  thick  trees.  But  it 
took  all  the  power  of  persuasion  of  which  Buel  was 
master,  to  get  the  poor  girl  into  the  carriage.  Noise- 
lessly she  placed  her  bare  feet  on  the  rough  floor, 
and  with  tears  kissed  the  forehead  of  her  sleeping 
father ;  while  Buel  laid  his  hand  upon  her,  deter- 
mined to  force  her  away,  and  into  the  carriage,  the 
moment  the  old  man  should  show  signs  of  awaking. 
In  her  little  room  she  had  left  a  note  for  her  father, 
assuring  him  of  her  unbounded  love  and  reverence, 
and  begging  him  to  believe  that  nothing  but  the 
most  important  of  all  considerations  could  induce 
her  to  do  as  she  had  done ;  that  she  was  in  safety, 
and  that,  if  his  thoughts  took  the  direction  of  surmis- 
ing that  she  had  run  away  to  be  married,  he  might 


76  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

rest  assured  that  it  was  not  so ;  and  closed  her  note 
by  beseeching  him  to  take  good  care  of  himself  till 
her  return,  and  by  a  most  fervent  and  beautiful 
prayer,  that  God  would  cover  his  gray  head  with  his 
protecting  care  and  mercy. 

At  length  the  weeping  maiden  was  in  the  carriage 
with  her  friend.  She  hoped  and  expected  that  in  a 
few  weeks  she  should  again  see  her  father. 

"  O  Henry  ! "  said  she,  "  this  is  sad.  May  God 
forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong  !  But  let  us  hope  that  this 
sorrowful  DEPARTURE  — " 

"  Will  surely  be  followed,"  said  he,  "  by  a  happy 
RETURN." 


THE    RETURN: 

OR,  INCIDENTS  IN  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  WAR. 


THE  journey  from  Albany  to  Boston,  in  those  days, 
was  on  horseback.  The  long  ranges  of  the  Tagh- 
canic  and  the  Hoosic  Mountains,  now  surmounted  a 
dozen  times  every  day  by  the  iron  horse,  had  not 
then  even  a  stage-road  over  them.  Our  travellers 
arrived  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Pontoosuc  (the 
Deer-runway)  at  the  close  of  a  hard  day's  ride.  It 
was  already  dark  before  they  descended  the  rugged 
sides  of  the  Taghcanic.  Not  a  house  was  to  be  seen, 
nor  a  light  within  the  vision,  save  one  in  the  distance, 
which  seemed  to  be  moving.  They  still  went  on- 
ward till  they  reached  the  margin  of  a  small,  but 
most  beautiful  lake,  on  the  east  shore  of  which  was 
a  thick  growth  of  large  hemlocks  and  pines.  The 
waters  were  pure  and  bright,  seeming  to  rejoice  to 
receive  the  stars  and  the  heavens,  and  to  reflect  them 
back,  true  as  a  mirror.  The  young  officer  stopped 
here,  and  told  his  fair  companion  that  it  was  in  vain 
to  attempt  to  go  further.  He  could  not  be  sure  of 

7* 


78  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

finding  the  path,  or  if  he  did,  of  finding  any  human 
habitation.  The  weary  girl  heard  him  with  the  same 
confidence  that  she  would  a  brother,  and  merely  said, 
that  she  should  soon  sleep  on  horseback,  unless  they 
did  stop  somewhere.  After  tying  the  horses,  Buel 
struck  a  light,  kindled  a  camp-fire,  and  then  selected 
a  spot,  dry  and  warm,  between  the  trees,  for  a  sleep- 
ing-place for  the  lady.  It  was  to  him  a  short  work 
to  cut  crotched  sticks,  cover  them  with  hemlock- 
boughs,  like  a  tent,  and  strew  the  ground  over  thick- 
ly with  the  same.  Then,  spreading  his  camp-cloak 
on  the  boughs  for  a  bed,  he  told  the  young  lady  he 
considered  that  good  enough  for  a  princess.  She 
duly  admired  it,  protested  against  taking  the  cloak 
from  him,  and  inquired  what  he  was  to  do. 

"  Do  ?  Why,  Miss  Hamilton,  I  must  keep  sentry, 
partly  to  feed  the  horses  with  the  few  oats  I  have 
with  me,  partly  to  keep  the  fire  agoing,  and  partly 
to  watch  against  all  intruders,  and  peradventure  to 
*  thinks  I  to  myself.'  But  what  in  the  world  are  we 
to  do  for  supper  ?  " 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

"  Why,  as  to  that  I  could  eat ;  but  I  am  an  old 
woodsman.  But  you,  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  O,  I  am  not  hungry.  You  know  how  I  ate 
your  lunch  at  noon." 

"I  wish  I  had  more  of  the  same,  —  but  hold! 
what  comes  there  ?  " 

Around  the  point  of  land  which  projected  far  into 
the  lake  came  a  bright  light,  seemingly  dancing  on 
the  waters,  and  suspended  by  nothing.  Buel  knew 


THE   RETURN.  79 

instantly  that  it  was  a  canoe,  and  that  behind  that 
blazing  torch  must  be  an  Indian,  spearing  fish.  In 
an  instant,  for  the  canoe  had  evidently  not  seen  the 
fire  on  the  shore  before^  the  torch  was  extinguished. 
Quite  as  quickly  did  Buel  snatch  his  hat,  and  with  it 
pour  water  on  his  camp-fire,  so  that  the  grove  and 
the  lake  were  again  in  total  darkness.  The  canoe 
lay  motionless  on  the  water,  its  dark  outlines  barely 
visible.  Not  a  word  was  now  spoken.  In  a  whisper, 
Kate  was  told  to  lie  down  out  of  the  way,  should  a 
bullet  chance  to  come  in  the  dark.  But  Buel  stepped 
noiselessly  behind  a  large  hemlock,  and  was  still. 
The  canoe  moved  along,  but  no  paddle  .was  taken 
out  of  the  water  to  show  its  flash.  Again  it  stopped, 
and  Buel  started,  —  for  he  thought  he  could  just  dis- 
cern the  rattle  of  a  rattlesnake.  With  equal  caution 
he  gave  three  very  low  whistles.  The  paddle  was 
instantly  in  motion,  and  the  canoe  shot  towards  him. 

"  Me  know  'em  whistle,"  said  the  Indian,  but  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  Why,  Cassiheeno,  my  good  fellow,  I  thought  I 
left  you  wounded  and  sick.  How  came  you  here.?  " 

"  Come  'cross  through  woods." 

"  That  's  very  plain.  But  come  ashore.  We 
must  talk." 

"  Indian  must  eat  first." 

"  Poor  fellow,  I  have  not  a  mouthful  to  give  you." 

"  You  'lone  ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  Miss  Hamilton,  whom  you  call  the 
White  Fawn,  with  me,  —  going  east.  You  know  my 
business." 


80  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Me  know.  Don't  know,  but  may  be  he  left  at 
some  house.  Plenty  fish  in  the  canoe." 

With  that  the  Indian  came  ashore.  In  a  few  min- 
utes a  new  fire  was  blazing,  the  fish  were  stuck  up 
on  sticks  to  roast,  and  a  supper  was  prepared  that  an 
epicure  might  envy.  The  fish  were  the  best,  and 
cooked  by  a  camp-fire,  and  eaten  under  the  open 
heavens,  even  Kate  acknowledged  that  her  appetite 
came  to  her  marvellously.  She  was  well  acquainted 
with  Cassiheeno,  and  felt  that  when  he  was  near  she 
had  a  friend  to  be  relied  on.  It  did  not  surprise 
Buel  in  the  least,  that  his  Indian  friend  ate  in  perfect 
silence.  It  was  their  way.  But  when,  after  supper, 
the  Indian,  in  the  most  indifferent  tone  possible, 
said :  — 

"  May  be,  while  White  Fawn  go  his  bed,  you  like 
go  out  yonder  and  smoke,"  he  knew  that  he  had 
something  of  importance  to  say.  Following  him 
along  the  margin  of  the  lake,  till  they  reached  the 
outlet,  and  where  the  dashing  of  the  waters  over  the 
stones  made  a  noise  sufficient  to  drown  their  voices, 
the  Indian  stopped,  and  sat  down.  The  young  offi- 
cer did  the  same. 

"  What  for  you  three  day  'fore  you  come  so  far  as 
this  ?  " 

"  I  found  it  so  difficult  to  obtain  a  horse,  suitable 
for  a  lady  to  ride  on.  It  took  me  more  than  a  day 
to  do  it." 

"  Big  officer  say  he  want  me  run  through  woods, 
get  'fore  you,  and  give  you  that  letter,"  at  the  same 
time  handing  out  a  small  letter.  Lighting  a  small 


THE   RETURN.  81 

piece  of  bark,  Buel  opened  and  read  the  letter.  It 
informed  him  that  the  enemy  had  made  a  decided 
movement, 'and  things  were  shaping  in  such  a  way, 
that  a  battle  must  soon  be  fought ;  that  he  must  hasten 
his  journey,  and  be  back  at  the  earliest  moment  pos- 
sible, and  at  the  same  time  adding  to  the  responsi- 
bility of  his  duties  at  Boston.  From  the  Indian  he 
learned  that,  as  soon  as  old  Mr.  Hamilton  found  his 
daughter  was  gone,  and  run  away,  too,  as  he  sup- 
posed, to  form  a  match  with  a  rebel  officer,  his  cha- 
grin, and  disappointment,  and  anger,  were  unbounded. 
There  was  no  possible  way  of  undeceiving  him,  and 
in  a  few  hours  his  cottage  was  empty,  and  he  gone, 
no  one  knew  whither,  under  the  full  impression  that 
his  beloved  child  had  deceived  him,  written  what  was 
false,  and  thrown  herself  away,  if  not  to  be  ruined, 
to  be  degraded  for  life.  After  musing  over  the  ti- 
dings awhile,  Buel  concluded  it  could  do  no  good  to 
tell  the  news  to  Kate.  It  would  worry  her  exceed- 
ingly, and  he  could  see  no  possible  benefit  to  accrue 
from  it.  Turning  to  the  Indian,  he  said  :  — 

"  Cassiheeno,  how  came  you  on  this  pond,  fish- 
ing ?  " 

"  Me  come  to  road,  —  see  no  horses  be  gone 
'long,  —  no  track.  Me  hungry,  and  find  canoe,  and 
spear  in  him.  Besides,  me  'fraid  ;  was  going  spend 
all  night  on  water." 

"  Ah  !  and  what  was  you  afraid  of?  " 

"  Me  set  out  yesterday,  —  run  some  miles,  stop  on 
hill  and  look  back,  and  see  Canada  Indian  on  trail. 
He  have  gun.  He  tread  soft.  He  have  girdle  tight, 


82  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

so  much  run.  Same  Indian  shoot  me,  when  wound- 
ed before.  He  know  I  scout,  and  British  officer  give 
him  much  money  get  my  scalp.  He  somewhere 
near  now.  May  be  shoot  me  any  moment ;  no  can 
help  it." 

"  I  hope  better  than  that,  my  good  fellow.  But 
now  you  have  done  your  errand,  you  must  go  back 
to  the  camp.  There  he  can't  follow  you.  I  will 
write  a  little  letter  to  the  Colonel.  In  the  mean  time, 
we  will  go  back  to  the  camp-fire,  and  say  nothing 
about  this  in  the  hearing  of  the  young  lady.  When 
she  gets  fast  asleep,  and  she  is  so  tired  she  will  sleep 
soundly,  then  we  will  take  the  horses,  and  ride  over  the 
mountain,  towards  Albany.  Your  enemy  is  probably 
between  this  and  the  mountain.  He  will  thus  lose 
your  trail,  and  I  will  get  back  here  before  daylight, 
and  start  very  early.  What  say  you  to  that  plan  ?  " 

"  He  very  good." 

As  they  went  back,  the  Indian  said,  "  Spose  no 
make  up  any  more  fire.  Let  him  all  go  out." 

"  O,  but  I  'm  cold,  and  I  am  afraid  Miss  Kate  will 
be  so  also." 

With  that  he  gathered  the  brands  together,  piled 
on  more  wood,  and  soon  had  a  cheerful  blaze.  The 
light  shot  up  among  the  tall  trees,  turning  them  into 
stately  pillars,  upholding  a  magnificent  and  intermi- 
nable dome.  All  beyond  the  immediate  circle  was 
intensely  dark.  The  Indian  sat  down  between  the 
fire  and  the  lake.  Miss  Hamilton  was  already  in 
her  nest,  wrapped  in  the  military  cloak,  and  fast 
asleep.  Buel  was  silent,  thinking  at  the  moment  of 


THE    RETURN.  83 

the  peril  In  which  the  Indian,  so  faithful  to  him  and 
his  country,  now  stood,  when  a  bold  whistle  on  the 
lake,  and  close  at  hand,  was  heard.  In  an  instant 
the  Indian  stood  up  straight,  turning  his  face  towards 
the  water,  and  in  another  instant  a  gun  was  fired, 
and  the  Indian  fell.  Buel  snatched  his  rifle,  from 
which  he  seldom  separated,  and  rushed  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  In  the  darkness  of  the  night  he  could 
just  see  a  canoe  moving  rapidly  off  upon  the  lake. 
A  shriek  from  the  poor  girl,  who  had  been  sudden- 
ly awaked  by  the  report  of  the  gun,  recalled  his 
thoughts,  and  he  hastened  back  to  the  wounded  man. 
He  then  threw  a  quantity  of  dry  wood  upon  the  fire, 
by  the  light  of  which  he  hoped  to  examine  the  wound 
of  the  poor  Indian.  The  blood  was  streaming  from 
his  bosom,  and  a  single  look  showed  the  young  Lieu- 
tenant that  the  wound  was  a  deadly  one.  Gently 
raising  his  head,  and  drawing  aside  his  clothing,  he 
applied  the  handkerchief  which  Kate  had  already 
dipped  in  the  lake  to  the  wound,  and,  by  pressing 
hard  upon  it,  was  enabled  to  keep  the  blood  from 
coming  out.  But  the  pale  face,  and  the  flagging 
limbs,  showed  plainly  that  little  could  be  done. 

"  O,  how  I  wish  there  was  a  doctor,  or  even  a 
house  near,  that  we  might  have  some  aid  for  this 
faithful  friend  !  O,  must  he  die  ?  "  said  Kate. 

"  White  Fawn  sees  that  I  must  die.  He  Canada 
Indian.  Me  'spect  he  kill  me  one  day.  He  never 
tire  on  the  trail." 

It  would  have  made  a  beautiful  picture.  The  poor 
Indian  lay  on  the  ground  at  full  length,  his  head  rest- 


84  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

ing  in  the  lap  of  Kate,  his  bosom  heaving  with  the 
effort  to  breathe,  while  the  blood,  despite  the  ap- 
pliances, ever  and  anon  silently  flowed  from  the 
breast,  or  rattled  and  gurgled  within,  at  every  breath- 
ing. Henry  Buel  bent  over  him  as  tenderly  as  a 
brother,  wiping  his  brow,  and  frequently  applying 
cold  water  to  his  lips,  and  washing  his  face  with  the 
same.  The  bright  glare  of  the  fire  showed  every 
change  in  his  face. 

"  Cassiheno,"  said  he,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  you 
are  ladly  wounded,  and  you  know  too  much  about 
gun-shot  wounds,  not  to  know  that  you  are  danger- 
ously hurt,,  and  I  greatly  fear,  though  I  hope  and 
pray  differently,  that  you  may  die  soon.  I  greatly 
fear  —  " 

"  That  me  die  any  moment !  Me  know,  'fore  sun 
rise,  —  never  see  him  face  again,  me  dead.  You 
good  friend  to  me  always,  now  want  ask  you  ques- 
tions which  trouble  me." 

"  Do  so,  dear  Cassiheeno,  and  any  thing  I  can  do 
for  you  now,  or  after  you  are  gone,  I  will  promise  to 
do  most  faithfully." 

"  Well,  you  know  me  friend  to  Americans,  me 
scout,  fight,  get  wounded,  and  now  be  killed,  'cause 
friend  to  your  people.  Canada  Indian  say  you  all 
thief.  Great  while  ago  you  come  over  great  water. 
Indian  then  own  all.  White  man  take  land.  Indian 
move  further  off.  Was  that  right  ?  What  say  you  ? 
Me  much  troubled  about  it. 

"  It  is  true,  that  we  have  got  your  lands  and  your 
rivers  ;  but  it  is  also  true,  that  we  paid  you  for 
them." 


THE    RETURN.  85 

"  That  no  seem  pay.  Spose  now  you  be  Boston. 
You  buy  him  all  for  few  dollar,  and  now  you  take 
great  price  for  little  piece,  —  just  so  much  cow  eat 
one  morning.  You  no  pay  Indian  so  much !  You 
no  say  that  right  ?  " 

"  Cassiheeno,  I  want  you  to  look  straight,  and 
have  your  eyes  wide  open.  Do  you  remember  my 
meeting  you  one  day  with.a  dry  root  in  your  hand, 
—  and  what  I  said  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  take  him,  look  at  him,  ask  me  what 
do  with  him.  Me  say,  going  burn  him.  You  say, 
give  him  me,  and  I  give  you  piece  of  tobacco.  Me 
say  yes,  and  sell  him." 

"  Well,  did  I  not  give  you  all  the  root  was  worth 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  plenty  much." 

"  And  how  much  do  you  suppose  this  beautiful 
rifle  is  worth,  —  this,  —  which  you  have  often  ad- 
mired ?  " 

"  Why,  spose  him  worth  fifty  silver  dollar." 

"  Very  well.  Now,  the  stock  which  you  so  much 
admire  was  made  of  that  root  which  you  sold  me 
for  the  tobacco.  By  adding  a  barrel,  lock,  trim- 
mings, and  working  it,  the  root  is  now  come  to  be 
worth  fifty  dollars.  But  when  I  bought  it,  I  gave 
you  all  it  was  worth  at  that  time  !  Just  so  we,  when 
we  bought  your  lands,  gave  you  all  they  Avere 
worth.  They  were  worth  no  more  to  you  than  any 
piece  of  hunting-ground.  By  our  working  on  them, 
building  roads,  and  bridges,  houses,  and  stores,  and 
streets,  like  my  rifle,  they  are  now  worth  a  great 


* 


86  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

deal.  You  see  it  would  be  wrong  to  come  to  me 
now  and  demand  that  I  pay  you  for  the  root  all  that 
my  rifle  is  now  worth.  Don't  you  see  that,  Cassi- 
heeno  ? " 

"  Yes,  me  see  him  plain  now." 

"  How  much  did  you  get  for  that  deer  which  you 
tamed,  and  sold  at  Boston  last  summer  ?  " 

"  Ten  dollar." 

"  What  was  he  worth  when  wild,  at  the  time  you 
caught  him  ?  " 

"  He  worth  nothing.  Me  sell  him  for  two  mouth- 
fuls  tobacco." 

"  Very  well.  You  see  it  is  labor  and  skill  be- 
stowed on  any  thing  that  makes  it  valuable.  My 
fathers  did  not  give  the  Indians  much  for  their  wild 
lands,  because  they  were  not  worth  much." 

"  Me  see  it  all  now,  —  all  plain.  My  eyes  wide 
open,  —  see  straight.  Thank  God,  no  more  wicked 
feeling  come  up  in  my  heart  about  it.  White  man 
work  like  horse,  and  grow  great,  —  Indian  no  work, 
grow  small." 

"  If  I  am  not  right,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  uninten- 
tional. I  have  answered  you  as  a  child  would  about 
a  father,  whom  he  knew  to  be  honest  and  true-heart- 
ed. But  now,  Cassiheeno,  there  is  a  more  important 
question  which  I  wish  to  ask  you." 

"  Me  answer  straight  and  plain  and  true." 

"  You  are  a  dying  man.  Before  the  sun  rises, 
you  think  you  will  be  dead.  I  want  to  know  where 
you  think  you  will  go  then." 

"  What  for  you  ask  ?     You  curiosity  ?  " 


THE    RETURN.  87 

"  No.  But  as  a  Christian,  and  a  believer  in  the 
Bible,  I  feel  anxious  about  your  spirit.  O,  why 
did  n't  I  talk  with  you  about  it  before,  when  you 
were  well !  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  Jesus 
Christ  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  of  mercy  through 
him  ?  " 

"  Me  know  much  about  that.  Long,  long  time 
ago,  me  very  young,  go  east  of  Albany  to  see  In- 
dians at  Kaunaumeek  (Nassau).  In  little  log-house, 
in  green  wood,  live  pale  man,  all  'lone,  —  nobody 
but  Indian  near  him.  He  send  ten,  twenty  mile  for 
bread.  He  look  sick,  but  meet  Indian,  talk  to  them 
out  of  the  Spirit-Book,  he  pray  with  them.  Make 
much  prayer,  and  many  times  look  on  Indian,  and 
say,  *  Poor  friends ! '  and  his  eyes  all  run  down  with 
tears.  Me  stay  many  months,  and  learn  much  from 
him." 

"  But  could  he  speak  the  Indian  language  ?  " 
"  No ;    but   he  have   young   Indian,  John  Wau- 
waumpequunnaunt,  who  take  what  he  say  and  make 
him  into  Indian." 

"  What  can  you  remember  about  his  teaching  ?  " 
"  Remember  Son  of  God  came  down  to  earth, 
look  like  man ;  he  preach,  make  miracle,  same  as 
make  sick  man  well,  blind  man  sec,  broken-bone 
man  jump  up  and  run  like  deer.  He  die  for  sinner ; 
white  man  sinner,  Indian  sinner.  He  in  heaven 
now,  and  love  poor  sinner  who  pray  to  him  with 
sorry  for  sin.  He  send  good  heart  and  spirit,  make 
heart  sick,  and  then  well  and  glad  with  joy,  and 
make  sinner  no  want  to  sin  any  more." 


88  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  habit  of  praying,  my 
friend  ?  " 

"  Always  ;  ever  since  be  with  pale  white  man." 

"  But  how  can  the  death  of  Jesus  Christ  save  so 
many  sinners  ?  " 

"  Just  same  little  piece  gold  buy  very  much  thing. 
He  worth  so  much  more, —  he  Son  of  God,  he  all 
good,  he  all  beautiful." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  you  shall  go  to  Him  when  you 
die  ?  " 

"  O,  yes.  Me  certain  Jesus  Christ  no  forget  poor 
Indian.  Me  never  forget  him  one  day.  Me  hope 
see  Him,  hope  see  pale  missionary-man,  hope  see 
John  Wauwaumpequunnaunt  'fore  morning.  Have 
no  fear,  inside  eyes  all  open,  inside  heart  all  still 
and  smooth  like  Lake  Sanhellon,  which  you  call 
'  The  Beautiful.'  I  very  weak  now ;  spose  Canada 
Indian  come  get  scalp  now." 

"  No,  not  till  he  gets  my  life  first,  my  dear 
brother ! " 

"  O,  thank  you,  thank  you  !  Now  put  my  hands 
on  my  breast ;  there,  me  never  move  again  till  angel- 
trumpet  awake  me.  O  Lord  Jesus,  pity  poor  igno- 
rant and  simple  Indian  !  Make  him  white  like  snow, 
make  him  bright  like  sun,  make  him  beautiful  like 
rainbow,  make  him  all  good  like  thy  own  self,  and 
let  him  live  with  thee  for  ever,  so  longer  sun  and 
moon  shine.  —  Amen." 

The  tears  of  beautiful  Kate  fell  fast  upon  the  face 
of  the  dying  man.  She  gently  called  him  "  Broth- 
er," but  he  could  speak  no  longer.  The  young  of- 


THE    RETURK.  W9 

ficer  took  his  hand,  but  it  was  cold.  The  bosom 
heaved  gently  a  few  times,  and  was  still.  Not  a 
finger  straightened  or  moved  as  his  spirit  left  the 
body. 

"  Who  would  have  expected  a  poor  Indian  to  utter 
sentiments  so  sublime,  and  to  die  a  death  so  beauti- 
ful ! "  said  Kate. 

"  He  has  been  taught  of  Heaven,"  said  Buel. 

When  the  morning  light  had  returned,  Kate  came 
out  of  her  bed  of  hemlock-boughs,  and  found  Buel 
sitting  over  the  embers  of  the  fire,  not  having  dared 
to  kindle  it  enough  to  create  a  light. 

"  Are  you  able  to  ride,  Miss  Hamilton  ?  I  trust 
we  shall  find  a  house  and  some  breakfast  within  a 
few' miles." 

"  Yes  ;  but  where  is  the  body  of  our  poor  Indian 
friend  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  care  of  that.  I  have  deposited  it 
where  his  bitterest  foes  cannot  find  it,  to  get  his 
scalp." 

"  Buried  him  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  so  deep  in  the  lake  that  no  one  will 
find  the  body.  I  do  not  believe  I  could  myself  find 
it  in  a  week.  I  sewed  him  up  in  his  own  blanket, 
and  then  in  birch-bark,  for  a  coffin  ;  I  put  in  stones 
enough  to  sink  and  keep  it  down.  The  faithful 
creature  will  there  sleep  till  the  resurrection.  We 
must  go." 

"  You  look  tired,  Henry  !  " 

"I  am  ;  but  it  is  not  safe  to  remain  here,  even  if 
my  business  were  not  most  urgent." 


90  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

Kate  cast  a  mournful  look  on  the  beautiful  lake, 
now  turning  to  silver  under  the  light  of  morning. 
The  loon  sent  up  his  mournful  cry,  —  the  only 
watcher  left  to  guard  the  dead.  The  travellers 
mounted  and  went  onwards. 

A  short  time  after  the  important  battles  which  ter- 
minated in  the  surrender  of  Burgoyne,  and  which 
will  render  the  name  of  Saratoga  memorable  for 
ever,  just  at  evening,  while  the  guns  which  were 
fired  over  the  grave  of  the  brave  Fraser  were  boom- 
ing over  the  valley  of  the  Hudson,  a  solitary  horse- 
man was  seen  approaching  the  head-quarters  of 
General  Washington.  His  horse,  jaded  and  droop- 
ing, showed  that  he  had  been  hard-ridden.  The 
rider  was  pale  and  haggard,  with  one  arm  in  a  sling. 
His  officer's  uniform  was  soiled  and  worn.  The 
sentinel  at  the  outpost  hailed  him,  and  delivered  him 
over  to  the  proper  officer ;  by  whom,  in  turn,  he  was 
conducted  to  the  tent  of  the  Commander-in-chief. 
On  dismounting  and  entering,  this  great  nobleman 
of  nature  arose  and  received  him,  in  a  kind  tone 
of  voice,  though  without  a  smile,  and  inquired  if  he 
had  communications  for  him. 

"  A  despatch  from  General  Gates,  sir." 
Washington  hastily  took  the  papers,  —  asked  the 
messenger  to  be  seated,  —  and  in  a  moment  was 
buried  in  their  contents.  As  he  read,  his  counte- 
nance lighted  up,  a  smile  played  around  his  mouth, 
and  once  or  twice  it  seemed  as  if  a  tear  would  drop 
from  his  eyes. 


THE    RETURN.  91 

"  You  bring  good,  great,  joyful  news,  sir.  Provi- 
dence has  indeed  smiled  upon  our  cause  once  more. 
The  result,  of  all  others,  which  at  the  present  mo- 
ment I  could  have  desired.  It  will  cheer  and  send 
courage  and  hope  through  the  country.  You  must 
have  ridden  hard  to  reach  me  so  quickly,  sir." 

"  My  horse  is  much  jaded,  sir." 

"  And  your  arm  ?  " 

"  Was  marked  by  an  ugly  customer  from  the 
enemy." 

"  Is  it  not  painful  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  much  delighted,  sir,  to  have  the  honor  of 
bearing  the  despatch,  and  of  seeing  your  face,  sir, 
that  I  do  not  notice  my  pain,  —  or  not  very  much." 

"  Rest  to-night,  sir,  and  in  the  morning,  with  a 
fresh  horse,  I  shall  want  you  to  return  with  com- 
munications. But,  Major  Buel — " 

"  Lieutenant  Buel,  sir,  if  you  please.  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  Lieutenant —  " 

"  Very  well,  sir,  that  will  do  for  to-night.  But 
the  terms  in  which  your  General  speaks  of  your  ser- 
vices, in  times  past,  as  well  as  in  the  late  battles,  are 
such,  that,  when  you  call  at  my  tent  to-morrow 
morning,  you  will  receive  a  commission  as  Major." 

The  young  officer  blushed  and  bowed,  but  was 
too  much  surprised  to  make  any  reply.  Washington 
instantly  saw  the  state  of  his  mind,  and  at  once  en- 
tered into  long  and  minute  inquiries  as  to  the  battles, 
their  order,  commencement,  termination,  and  the 
like.  He  seemed  to  comprehend  the  whole  at  once. 
After  a  protracted  conversation,  he  said,  "  Major, 


92  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

you  must  need  rest,  and  your  arm  must  need  atten- 
tion. At  sunrise  to-morrow  morning  all  shall  be 
ready  for  you."  Then  calling  an  officer,  he  said, 
"  Conduct  Major  Buel  to  his  quarters.  He  is  to  rest 
undisturbed  by  company,  and  be  ready  for  an  early 
start :  and,  as  his  horse  is  jaded,  he  will  take  Hawk- 
eye  instead.  Call  in  my  aids." 

With  his  commission,  Major  Buel  returned  to  his 
own  standard ;  but  his  arm  was  so  shattered,  that  it 
was  soon  apparent  that  he  must  either  lose  the  limb, 
or  leave  the  army  for  the  present.  The  latter  alter- 
native was  pressed  upon  him  by  his  General,  and 
with  great  reluctance  he  consented  to  receive  a 
blank  furlough,  at  a  time  when  the  hopes  and  the 
prospects  of  his  country  were  becoming  brighter  and 
more  sure  of  success. 

Once  more  the  young  Major  found  himself  on  the 
banks  of  the  Piscataqua,  in  his  own  humble  home, 
with  his  own  kind  sister  to  nurse  him.  He  had  time 
to  look  over  the  past,  to  recruit  his  strength,  and  to 
take  care  of  his  arm,  which,  owing  to  neglect  or 
want  of  proper  management,  threatened  to  take  its 
own  time  to  get  well.  It  must  be  told,  too,  that  he 
continued  to  have  some  conversations  with  Kate 
Hamilton,  —  the  same  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had 
conducted  out  of  the  State  of  New  York,  and  placed 
with  his  sister  till  such  a  time  as  she  could  discover 
her  father's  residence.  By  an  unexpected  legacy, 
Major  Buel  had  come  in  possession  of  a  pretty  prop- 
erty, and  for  the  times  was  comparatively  wealthy. 
One  would  think  he  might  now  have  been  contented 


THE    RETURN.  93 

and  happy.  But  no !  the  fellow  must  tease  Kate, 
and  make  her  flutter  and  blush,  and  declare  that  she 
never  could  think  of  it  without  her  father's  knowl- 
edge and  blessing,  till,  in  order  to  have  the  right  to 
be  near  him,  and  nurse  him,  she  did  consent  —  to 
marry  him  !  How  can  it  be  wondered  at  ?  She 
knew  •  not  that  she  had  a  father  or  a  friend  in  the 
world.  They  took  a  house,  and  a  happy  home  it 
was. 

For  three  years  subsequent  to  their  marriage, 
Major  Buel  was  the  Government  Agent  for  the 
troops  and  forts  in  that  region,  and  had  spared  no 
time  or  expense  in  trying  to  discover  the  father  of 
his  wife,  if,  indeed,  he  was  living ;  but  all  in  vain. 
He  had  written  in  all  directions,  and  inquired  of 
every  Indian  whom  he  met.  They  had  about  given 
up  all  search,  when,  meeting  with  a  Mic-Mac  Indian, 
the  Major  received  information  that  excited  atten- 
tion. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he  to  his  wife,  "  I  beg  you  will 
not  have  your  expectations  too  much  raised  ;  but 
Keelo,  a  Mic-Mac,  has  described  a  man  who,  as  I 
hope,  may  prove  to  be  your  father." 

"  O,  that  it  may  be  as  I  wish  and  pray ! "  and 
the  tears  fell  fast.  "I  must  go  with  you  in  the 
search,  and  so  must  Annette." 

Annette  !  why,  it  is  far  off  through  the  deep, 
howling  wilderness  !  You  would  not  take  our  child, 
but  two  years  old,  through  these  perils  ?  " 

"  I  can  surely  go  where  my  husband  can  go  ;  and 
he  is  too  good  a  woodsman  to  let  either  of  us  suffer. 


94  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

We  may  need  —  or  I  may  need  —  the  child  as  a 
mediator,  should  we  even  find  my  father." 

The  Major  was  nonplussed.  But  like  all  good 
husbands,  he  soon  saw  something  wise  in  the  plan  of 
his  wife,  and  concluded  to  do  as  she  said. 


The  Miramichi,  in  the  province  of  New  Bruns- 
wick, is  a  noble  river,  heading  far  up  the  forest, 
where  none  but  the  hunter's  foot  had  ever  trod. 
The  tall  pines  that  lined  its  banks  were  untouched 
by  the  feller's  axe,  and  lifted  themselves  up  to  a 
magnificent  height.  Far  up  among  these  pines,  by 
itself  alone,  stood  a  cottage,  as  if  declining  all  inter- 
course with  men.  Its  only  inhabitant  was  an  aged 
man,  who  lived  solitarily  enough.  It  was  plain  that 
he  had  means  enough,  for  the  forest-men  brought 
for  his  use  furniture  and  luxuries  to  which  they  were 
strangers.  The  old  man  seemed  to  hold  little  or  no 
intercourse  with  the  world.  His  amusement  was  in 
reading  a  fine  collection  of  books,  and  now  and  then 
in  taking  a  fine  salmon  from  the  river,  on  whose 
banks  his  dwelling  stood,  or  shooting  a  deer  as  he 
came  into  his  little  clover-field  back  of  his  house. 
The  forest-men  said  he  had  been  there  some  years, 
but  nobody  seemed  to  know  any  thing  about  him. 

The  old  man  kept  his  house,  garden,  and  premises 
very  neat.  Every  day  he  would  go  out  and  take 
exercise,  and  then  sit  down  and  read,  or  live  over 
the  past,  and  have  the  reveries  of  age,  —  what  he 
might,  and  would  do,  if  he  could  be  young  again. 
At  his  window  was  a  beautiful  rose-bush  in  full 


THE    RETURN.  95 

blossom,  and  the  inside  of  the  cottage  was  tastefully 
arranged.  One  day  he  sat  down  to  his  books,  and, 
after  reading  for  a  time,  he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed. 
He  was  carried  back  for  years,  to  the  time  when  Kate 
was  a  bright  little  child,  and  danced  around  him  like 
a  sunbeam  in  his  dwelling.  He  dreamed  that  she 
stood  before  him  in  all  the  joyousness  of  childhood, 
making  her  ringing  notes  to  thrill  upon  his  heart- 
strings. He  awoke,  —  for  he  heard  her  utter  the 
name *bf  "  Father  !"  What  was  his  amazement! 
There  stood  a  little  girl,  resting  her  beautiful  head 
on  his  knee,  in  all  the  confidence  and  loveliness  of 
childhood, —  the  very  image  of  Kate  !  And  there 
knelt  Kate  herself,  with  her  hands  on  his  arm  and 
shoulder,  while  a  fine-looking  man  stood  near  to 
support  her !  Convulsively  he  clenched  his  fist,  and 
turned  away  his  head.  O,  that  was  the  child  who 
had  deceived  him,  as  he  thought,  and  ran  off  and 
married  a  rebel  soldier  !  And  that  was  the  man 
who  had  inflicted  a  wound  so  cruel  !  But,  though 
he  averted  his  face,  and  shut  his  fist,  the  father 
struggled  hard.  He  did  not  repel  the  dear  little 
Annette.  He  did  not  shake  off  his  child  !  He  said 
not  a  word  ;  but  when  his  daughter  could  command 
herself  so  as  to  relate  the  whole  circumstances  of 
her  departure,  of  her  marriage,  and  of  her  history, 
the  tears  fell  fast  and  scalding.  He  clasped  his 
daughter  to  his  heart,  and,  sobbing  like  a  child,  ex- 
claimed, "  O  my  child  !  my  child  !  what  a  long 
dream  of  sorrow  I  have  had  !  I  have  prayed 
often  and  much,  that  my  sorrows  might  do  me 


96  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

good,  but  never  expected  to  have  them  turned  into 
joy  !  What  sorrows  came  on  me  on  your  DE- 
PARTURE —  " 

"  Yes,  dear  father  ;  but  what  joys  will  follow  — 
THE  RETURN  ! " 


MY  FIRST  FUNERAL. 


WHAT  pastor  does  not  know  how  solemn,  and  mel- 
low, and  tender  the  hour  or  two  after  his  second  ser- 
vice on  the  Sabbath  often  is?  He  is  alone  in  his 
study ;  looking  back  with  sorrow  and  joy,  and  for- 
ward with  fear  and  hope.  How  tenderly  at  such 
times  come  back  the  faces  of  loved  friends  whom  he 
has  followed  to  the  grave,  and  the  recollection  of 
scenes  through  which  he  has  passed  !  Probably  the 
experience  of  our  early  ministry  takes  the  deepest 
hold  upon  us,  and  makes  impressions  peculiarly  last- 
ing. So  it  has  been  with  me. 

I  had  just  commenced  my  ministry,  when  a  mes- 
sage came  that  a  woman,  sick  and  in  trouble,  wanted 
to  see  me.  It  was  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  town, 
and  I  had'  never  been  there.  A  long  ride  over 
hills,  and  then  sand-plains  that  seemed  very  dreary, 
brought  me  to  a  small,  solitary  dwelling.  The  house 
was  new ;  not  covered  with  clapboards,  and  every 
thing  about  it  gave  evidence  of  poverty  and  thrift- 
lessness.  In  one  of  the  two  rooms  which  comprised 


y»  -  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

the  house  lay  the  sick  one.  The  room  was  cheer- 
less, and,  it  being  early  autumn,  the  winds  were 
whistling  between  the  boards.  Some  pieces  of  news- 
papers were  pasted  over  some  of  the  cracks,  but  they 
seemed  to  do  no  good.  On  a  poor,  but  very  neat 
bed,  with  a  sheet  held  up  by  having  some  old  forks 
thrust  through  the  corners  and  into  the  house,  as  a 
kind  of  curtain,  she  lay.  Her  countenance  was  as 
pale  as  the  sheet,  save  a  little  hectic  spot  in  each 
cheek.  She  was  young  and  beautiful,  even  while 
sinking  in  ruins.  The  forehead  was  high,  smooth,  and 
marble.  The  eye  brilliant  and  sparkling.  Though 
inexperienced,  I  knew  that  this  must  be  the  consump- 
tion. She  was  a  young  wife,  and  her  beautiful  little 
twin  daughters,  three  or  four  years  old,  stood  by 
their  mother,  as  if  they  were  doubtful  whether  the 
visit  of  the  stranger  betokened  good  or  evil  for  their 
mother. 

Long  and  intensely  interesting  was  the  conversa- 
tion which  I  held  with  her.  This  was  her  father's 
house ;  a  very  poor  old  man.  She  had  given  her 
heart  and  hand  to  one  who  had  given  every  promise 
of  making  her  happy  ;  but  strong  drink  had  first 
made  him  a  brute,  and  then  a  demon.  She  had 
borne  his  abuse  and  cruelty  till  her  life  was  endan- 
gered, when  he  was  taken  up  by  the  civil  authorities. 
When  liberated  from  confinement,  he  had  left  her 
and  her  babes,  and  for  two  years  she  had  not  heard 
from  him.  She  sustained  herself  and  children  with 
her  needle,  till  the  cough,  the  chills  and  fevers,  and 
night-sweats,  had  brought  her  too  low.  She  then, 


MY   FIRST   FUNERAL.  .  99 

broken-hearted  and  crushed,  had  returned  to  her 
father's  humble  dwelling  to  die. 

Piece  by  piece  did  she  give  me  her  history ;  but 
not  an  unkind  or  severe  word  did  she  drop  concern- 
ing her  husband,  nor  let  fall  a  single  expression  of 
complaining.  Her  sorrows  had  led  her  to  the  Great 
Deliverer,  and  she  had  a  hope  and  a  faith  sufficient 
to  carry  her  through  any  amount  of  trial.  The  his- 
tory of  her  experience  was  simple,  childlike,  and 
beautiful.  I  cannot  recollect ;  but  it  convinced  me 
that,  if  there  be  any  such  thing  as  the  teachings  of 
the  Spirit,  his  breath  had  been  warm  upon  her.  She 
had  sent  for  me  to  lay  open  her  heart ;  to  ask  if  she 
might  be  numbered  with  the  visible  followers  of 
Christ,  and  give  her  twin  babes  up  to  him  in  baptism. 
The  sun  was  just  setting  as  I  left  her,  with  a  smile 
on  her  lips  soft  and  mild  as  the  sunset  of  the  warm 
autumn  day. 

After  repeated  visits  and  inquiries  about  Mrs. 
Blanchard,  —  for  that  was  her  real  name, —  my 
small,  infant  church  gathered  with  me  one  Sabbath 
afternoon,  just  at  night,  into  that  sick-room.  The 
church  was  composed  mostly  of  young  converts,  and 
their  affections  were  easily  kindled.  The  first  run- 
nings from  the  grapes  were  there.  The  room  was 
full.  And  how  like  an  angel  she  looked,  as,  propped 
up  by  her  coarse  but  white  pillows,  she  entered  into 
covenant  with  God  and  his  people,  and  gave  herself 
away  for  ever  !  And  how  the  eyes  of  all  were  met 
with  tears  of  sympathy,  and  of  joy,  as  they  saw  her 
beaming  face.  And  when,  putting  forth  the  utmost 


100        .  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

of  her  strength,  she  raised  herself  in  the  bed,  and 
laid  one  hand  on  the  head  of  each  of  her  little  ones, 
and  gave  them  such  a  look  as  a  mother  only  can 
give,  —  and  that  too  in  death,  while  I  baptized  them  in 
the  name  of  the  Trinity,  —  the  whole  company  held 
their  breathing,  and  the  tickings  of  the  clock  were 
plainly  heard.  How  solemn,  how  beautiful,  was  that 
act  of  giving  them  up  to  the  Redeemer,  and  having 
his  seal  put  upon  them  ere  she  left  them  to  orphan- 
age !  I  have  baptized  many,  many  since,  but  never 
saw  a  baptism  like  this.  How  fervently  and  how 
tenderly  we  commended  her  and  the  little  ones  to 
the  Great  Shepherd  !  I  doubt  whether  there  was 
one  present  who  did  not  long  to  be  out,  —  that  he 
might  weep  aloud.  For  a  single  moment  I  saw  a 
tear  of  earth  dim  the  eye  of  the  mother,  but  it  was 
but  for  a  moment,  ere  the  Angel  of  Hope  banished 
it  away  with  his  wing,  and  it  returned  no  more.  She 
sank  back  on  the  bed  exhausted,  and  the  little  church, 
one  by  one,  silently  passed  along  by  her  bedside,  and 
took  her  hand,  and  dropped,  I  doubt  not,  a  'prayer 
for  her  babes,  into  that  golden  censer  which  Christ 
holds  in  his  right  hand.  Then  we  went  to  our 
homes ;  not  all  equally  affected,  but  all  with  emo- 
tions awakened  and  chastened. 

In  a  few  days  more  I  renewed  my  visit.  When  I 
reached  the  house,  it  was  so  still  that  I  felt  sure  the 
footsteps  of  the  angel  of  death  must  be  near.  On 
entering,  I  found  the  sufferer  calm  and  natural,  ex- 
cept that  her  breathing  was  short,  and  the  white 
hand  did  not  lift  itself  up  to  meet  mine,  and  the 


MY    FIRST    FUNEKAL.  .  101 

smile  quickly  gave  way  to  distress.  She  could  not 
speak,  but  pressed  my  hand  and  made  the  motion 
for  prayer.  The  little  girls  stood  at  her  head,  with 
her  hand  in  theirs.  We  prayed  once  more.  On 
rising  up,  she  gave  a  sweet  smile  of  thanks,  and 
then  turned  to  look  on  her  babes.  The  look  be- 
came a  gaze.  A  faint  tremor —  faint  as  possible  — 
touched  her  lips,  and  it  was  all  over.  Not  a  finger 
moved,  and  the  children  were  unconsciously  holding 
the  hand  of  their  dead  mother. 

Then  came  the  funeral.  In  my  short-sightedness, 
I  supposed  that  it  would  be  touching  and  tender  as  a 
matter  of  course.  It  was  my  first  funeral  since  my 
ordination.  My  fears  were  lest  emotion  should  pre- 
vent my  saying  what  I  wished  to.  But  I  reckoned 
without  my  host.  On  reaching  the  house  for  the 
funeral  services,  there  was  the  aged*  father  and  moth- 
er in  deep  affliction.  On  each  knee  of  the  grand- 
father sat  a  twin  dressed  in  white,  with  black  ribbons 
on  the  shoulders  of  their  dresses.  And  there  sat  the 
bloated,  stupid,  filthy,  polluted,  loathsome  being  who 
called  himself  husband  and  father.  The  creature 
had  worn  out  the  life,  and  broken  the  heart,  of  a 
young,  beautiful  being ;  let  her  sicken,  and  suffer, 
and  die  alone  ;  and  had  now  come  to  sit,  and  act  as 
chief  mourner  !  His  breath  was  then  steaming  with 
the  fumes  of  the  still.  His  presence  was  poison  to 
all  that  were  present.  And  for  him  I  was  expected 
to  pray  as  the  chief  mourner  and  the  husband.  Had 
a  rattlesnake  lifted  himself  up,  and  made  his  presence 
known  on  the  table  of  a  good  old-fashioned  thanks- 


102  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

giving  dinner,  he  could  hardly  have  been  more  dis- 
gusting. All  that  I  had  intended  to  say  was  gone,  — 
it  seemed  like  sacrilege  to  say  it,  or  to  speak  of  her 
before  him.  All  that  I  intended  to  recall  in  prayer 
was  gone,  for  there  was  the  monster  to  be  prayed 
over  as  chief  mourner.  What  I  said  or  did  I  know 
not,  for  the  scene  was  awful  to  me.  The  creature 
—  I  will  not  call  him  man  —  could  not  walk  straight 
after  the  coffin ! 

Soon  after  the  funeral,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing that  he  had  taken  himself  off  again ;  leaving  the 
grave  of  his  wife,  and  the  helpless  babes,  with  as 
little  emotion  as  if  he  had  been,  not  a  brute,  but 
a  monster.  I  never,  heard  of  him  again ;  but  the 
prayer  at  the  baptism  was  answered,  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  that  the  orphans  were  well  pro- 
vided for.  This  relieved  the  remembrance  of  the 
horrors  of  my  first  funeral. 


THE  POOR  STUDENT. 


"  OLD  Uncle  Jerry  Hull !  "  So  the  old  man  was 
called,  the  town  over.  How  or  why  the  whole  region 
should  claim  to  be  his  nephews  and  nieces,  is  more 
than  I  can  tell.  But  when  I  came  on  the  stage  of 
childhood,  the  claim  had  been  long  established,  and 
he  was  Uncle  Jerry  by  what  the  law  calls  the  right 
of  possession.  Little  did  the  old  man  care  who 
claimed  to  be  of  his  family,  provided  he  could  make 
them  all  help  him.  He  was  a  large,  square-built 
man,  with  a  face  broad  and  deeply  furrowed,  and 
an  eye  he  had  that  twinkled  brightly  whenever  the 
spirit  that  peeped  out  of  it  was  glad.  He  always 
wore  cloth  which  his  own  sheep  had  first  worn,  and 
it  was  always  of  the  same  muddy-red,  colored  by  his 
own  butternuts.  He  lived  in  a  low,  red  house  on  the 
corner,  facing  the  south,  with  his  long  row  of  barns 
on  the  street  that  ran  north  and  south,  so  that  the 
yards  and  cattle  were  directly  under  his  eye.  There 
was  the  well  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  with  the 
long  well-sweep  or  pole,  so  common  and  so  peculiar 


104  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

to  New  England  in  olden  times.  There  was  the 
horse-shed  and  the  great  butternut-tree,  under  which 
stood  the  grindstone,  at  which  all  the  neighborhood 
did  their  grinding.  They  would  have  felt  hurt  and 
injured  had  he  removed  it,  or  questioned  their  right 
to  use  and  wear  it  out  as  fast  as  they  pleased. 

Uncle  Jerry  had  two  strong  sides,  but  he  had  one 
weak  one.  He  did  love  —  money  !  He  was  a  good 
man  in  the  main,  a  go-to-meeting,  Sabbath-keeping 
man,  a  professor  of  religion,  and  all  that,  and  few 
men  ever  tried  harder  to  gain  two  worlds  than  he. 
One  he  did  obtain.  But  to  do  it,  he  never  gambled, 
or  speculated,  or  ran  risks ;  he  only  toiled  and 
saved,  —  toiled  and  saved.  Nothing,  to  the  amount 
of  a  husk,  was  ever  lost  about  his  premises.  He 
never  sold  straw,  except  by  the  bundle.  His  work- 
men complained  somewhat  of  their  food  ;  but  they 
always  had  plenty  of  hard  cider  to  drink,  —  for 
Uncle  Jerry  had  proved  it  to  demonstration,  that,  if 
they  drank  freely  of  cider,  they  wanted  less  food. 
Once,  however,  they  played  him  a  saucy  trick.  Joe 
Hunt  was  Uncle  Jerry's  boy-of-all-chores, —  a  gnarly, 
tough,  tight-grained  fellow,  —  a  perfect  hornbeam,— 
you  could  neither  split  nor  cut  him.  Where  he  came 
from,  nobody  knew.  The  old  man  used  to  "  baste  " 
him  with  a  cart- whip,  as  he  called  it ;  and  Joe  would 
sulk  and  dog  and  snarl,  but  neither  ciy  nor  run. 
But  he  had  his  own  way  of  revenge,  and  amply  did 
he  take  it  I  give  but  a  single  specimen.  Uncle 
Jerry  had  a  cow,  —  old  Siba,  —  so  cross  that  she  was 
said  to  kick  at  her  own  shadow.  By  great  pains- 


THE    POOR    STUDENT.  105 

taking  she  was  fatted,  and  fatted  well,  and  Uncle 
Jerry's  eyes  fairly  snapped  whenever  he  dared  to  go 
near  enough  to  pat  her  sides.  Just  as  she  was 
ready  for  the  butcher,  Uncle  Jerry  was  met  one 
night  as  he  came  home  by  Joe  Hunt.  There  was  a 
wild  eye  in  Joe,  but  a  secret  roguish  smile  under 
terror,  as  heat-lightning  will  sometimes  flash  out 
from  behind  the  dark  cloud.  "  Uncle  Jerry !  Uncle 
Jerry  !  old  Siba  is  sick,  — just  gone !  "  Out  to  the 
barn  bounded  Uncle  Jerry,  and  sure  enough,  there 
she  lay,  apparently  in  the  agonies  of  death.  The 
old  man  gave  but  one  look.  "  Joe,"  says  he  in  a 
whisper,  "Joe,  kill  her  instantly,  before  she  dies. 
She'll  do  for-fce  men!"  Kill  her  Joe  did,  with 
many  an  inward  chuckle.  The  rogue  had  watched 
till  he  saw  Uncle  Jerry  coming  home,  and  then  had 
made  the  cow  swallow  a  pint  of  melted  lard, — 
enough  to  make  her  sick  for  half  an  hour,  when  it 
would  have  all  passed  away.  Joe  gave  the  men 
hints  enough  to  prevent  their  losing  their  appetites, 
as  they  stowed  away  the  "  sick  beef."  There  was 
no  mischief  in  which  Joe  was  not  an  adept.  Had 
there  been  a  college  for  the  study  of  roguery,  Joe 
would  have  received  the  highest  honors. 

Uncle  Jerry  would  be  rich,  —  even  though  he 
pierced  his  conscience  through  with  many  sorrows. 
He  lived  in  an  obscure,  back  town,  and  in  the 
furthest  nook  of  the  town,  far  up  among  the  wild, 
rocky  hills  and  the  low  mountains  covered  with 
wood.  The  valleys  between  the  hills  were  small, 
springy,  and  cold.  He  owned  full  nine  hundred 


106  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

acres  of  this  rough  and  ragged  land.  Although 
there  was  no  place  at  which  he  could  buy  and  sell 
nearer  than  six  or  eight  miles,  yet  Uncle  Jerry  defied 
all  these  frowns  of  nature,  and,  as  people  supposed, 
grew  rich.  Secretly  and  stealthily  did  the  neigh- 
bors creep  up  to  the  red  house  and  leave  their  notes 
for  a  few  dollars  to  help  to  eke  out  the  year.  But 
as  he  would  never  lend  money  unless  the  borrower 
would  take  a  few  sheep  on  shares,  it  was  soon  known 
that  almost  every  body  were  raising  sheep  on  shares, 
—  "just  to  try  it !  "  Then  he  used  to  sell  —  rum! 
Not  by  the  gallon  or  glass,  but  simply  by  the  pint 
and  the  quart.  He  was  the  centre  for  six  miles 
around  in  this  respect,  and  truly  th^re  were  two  de- 
cided advantages  in  this  ;  first,  it  ^(s  said  that  his 
liquors  were  in  just  that  state,  that  you  might  "  drink 
a  quart  and  not  feel  it,"  and  secondly,  the  people 
used  to  whisper,  that,  by  some  unaccountable  process, 
the  bottoms  of  his  tin  pint  and  quart  measures  were 
rounded  up,  as  if  battered  on  the  top  of  a  cannon 
ball,  so  that  a  pint  or  a  quart  seemed  "  a  dreadful 
little."  However  that  might  be,  not  a  neighbor  in 
the  region  could  kill  a  pig  that  would  "  weigh  eight- 
score,"  without  being  nerved  up  by  "  something 
from  Uncle  Jerry's." 

The  Wilsons,  who  kept  a  large,  dashing,  out-trust- 
ing store  some  miles  off,  were  great  friends  to  Uncle 
Jerry.  There  he  went  to  fill  his  barrel,  "  to  hear 
the  news,"  to  "  hear  the  great  folks  talk,"  to  learn 
the  gossip  for  ten  miles  round,  and  to  be  treated  with 
peculiar  attention.  He  might  fill  his  glass  or  his 


THE   POOR   STUDENT.  107 

tobacco-box  just  as  if  at  home,  —  that  he  might! 
As  many  as  six  or  eight  times  a  year  he  went  to  see 
the  Wilsons,  and  as  often  they  were  glad  to  see  him. 
To  be  sure  they  used  to  ask  him  to  put  his  name  on 
a  little  piece  of  paper  with  theirs,  "  just  for  form's 
sake,"  —  nothing  more.  How  heartily  the  old  man 
used  to  laugh  at  their  extravagance  !  —  for  they  al- 
ways gave  him  a  hard  dollar  just  to  go  through  that 
form  !  There  was  a  bank  some  fifteen  miles  ofF, 
and  the  Wilsons  were  men  of  business.  Into  the 
large,  leathern  purse  dropped  the  dollar ;  and  it 
seemed  to  chuckle  as  it  went  in,  —  for  money  that 
went  into  that  purse,  like  that  which  goes  into  China, 
never  came  otlt  again.  It  was  a  great  mystery  to 
Uncle  Jerry  how  people  need  be  poor.  He  could 
see  no  necessity  for  it.  Why  need  they  lose  their 
property  ;  he  never  lost  his,  —  not  a  dollar  in  all  his 
life.  Take  care,  Uncle  Jerry  !  Thy  sails  are  full, 
and  thy  seas  are  smooth  now.  But  take  care,  break- 
ers are  called  so,  because  they  break  the  waves  and 
the  ships  too.  Take  care  ! 

Cynthia  was  Uncle  Jerry's  only  daughter,  —  and, 
if  not  his  only  idol,  certainly  a  favorite  one.  Many 
an  idolater  has  worshipped  a  more  unlovely  idol  than 
Cynthia, —  for  she  was  beautiful.  Small  in  stature, 
untamed  by  any  maternal  control, —  for  her  mother 
died  when  she  was  a  mere  infant,  —  she  was  as  wild 
as  the  squirrels  that  played  in  her  father's  butternut 
grove,  and  as  merry  as  the  lark  that  shouted  over 
his  green  meadows  ;  —  the  best  scholar  in  the  new, 
red  school-house,  the  pet  of  her  teachers,  the  envied 


108  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

of  her  mates  and  companions  in  study.  She  grew 
up  into  seventeen  before  time  had  laid  a  wrinkle  on 
her  face,  or  care  had  left  a  mark  from  his  pencil, 
or  she  had  —  as  far  as  known  —  received  a  single 
scratch  from  the  arrow  that  comes  from  the  quiver 
of  Venus's  son.  Her  father  never  crossed  her,  and 
he  was  careful  to  show  to  her  as  few  weaknesses  as 
possible.  He  sometimes  thought  she  would  be  al- 
ways a  little  girl  at  home  with  him,  and  then  he 
would  dream  of  her  marrying  a  rich  man,  and  living 
in  a  large  brick  house  in  the  great  city.  Whether 
any  thoughts  on  this  subject  ever  entered  Cynthia's 
head,  is  more  than  we  know.  She  appeared  to  pa^s 
on  "  in  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free,"  and  we  are 
bound  to  believe  the  best. 

Even  before  the  pretty  Cynthia  had  reached  this 
age,  there  were  few  youth  in  the  region  who  did  not 
know  that  she  was  fair,  and  her  father  rich.  Awk- 
wardly did  they  approach  her,  but  all  received  the 
cold  side  of  her  face,  —  unless  we  except  John  Doon, 
an  orphan  boy,  who  lived  with  an  aunt  a  mile  or  two 
off.  John  and  Cynthia  were  schoolmates  when  they 
were  children,  and  though  John  knew  that  she  was 
dressed  tidily  and  neatly,  yet,  as  they  stood  at  the 
heads  of  their  respective  classes,  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  school-house,  she  never  seemed  to  know  that 
John  wore  only  coarse  linsey-woolsey.  John  was  a 
strong-limbed,  awkward  fellow,  and  many  a  ride  did 
he  give  Cynthia  on  his  sled  across  the  ice  of  the  big 
pond,  in  going  and  coming  from  school.  John  was 
any  thing  but  handsome.  Indeed,  to  do  him  justice, 


THE    POOR    STUDENT.  109 

he  was  a  homely  fellow.  His  body  seemed  long 
and  his  legs  short.  His  hands  were  dangling  about, 
as  if  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  themselves.  His 
face  was  a  granite  face,  and  his  head  looked  as  if  it 
had  worn  out  two  or  three  bodies.  But  John  had  a 
way  of  his  own,  and  he  and  his  poor  aunt  used  to 
continue  to  battle  fortune  and  keep  want  at  a  little 
distance,  though  he  would  there  stand  and  eye  them 
sharply.  By  merest  accident,  as  was  supposed,  after 
John  had  grown  up,  he  met  Cynthia  in  her  father's 
butternut  grove  one  afternoon.  He  had  some  chat, 
and  then  the  conversation  grew  more  sober,  till  the 
young  man  let  her  so  far  into  his  confidence  as  to 
tell  her  his  plans,  —  to  talk  about  "  going  to  college," 
and  to  ask  her  advice  on  certain  points.  Whether 
the  advice  which  she  felt  called  upon  to  give  went 
against  her  conscience,  or  whether  it  was  the  re- 
sponsibility of  being  called  upon  to  advise  a  young 
man,  I  never  knew  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  she  went 
home  more  thoughtful  and  sedate  that  afternoon  than 
ever  before,  and  John  went  to  put  his  plans  into  ex- 
ecution. It  was  soon  reported  that  John  was  going 
to  college,  and  then  people  shook  their  heads  with 
incredulity,  'and  blamed  the  ambition  of  the  aunt, 
and  pitied  the  folly  of  the  boy.  Uncle  Jerry  de- 
clared it  was  sheer  madness  to  take  a  boy  who  was 
good  to  work,  and  spoil  him  by  making  him  into  a 
student !  Cynthia,  merely  asked  if  a  young  man 
who  did  one  thing  well  would  not  another,  when 
her  father  wondered  where  she  got  such  a  notion  into 
her  head,  and  told  her  she  knew  nothing  about  it. 
10 


110  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

But  through  "  rough  and  tumble,"  John  was  on 
his  way  to  college,  afoot,  with  his  books  under  one 
arm,  and  his  clothes  under  the  other.  And  then  he 
was  in  college, — nobody  knew  how  he  got  there, 
or  how  he  was  supported  there.  He  never  told  his 
sacrifices  and  pinchings,  keeping  school  by  day, 
and  studying  by  night,  his  economizings  and  his 
doings  without;  how  twice  every  year  there  came 
a  letter  containing  a  small,  but  to  him  valuable, 
amount  of  money.  It  was  directed  in  a  neat,  stud- 
ied, and  evidently  assumed  hand,  and  never  dropped 
twice  into  the  same  post-office.  He  never  knew  the 
unseen  friend,  and  had  no  right  to  guess,  where - 
concealment  was  designed.  He  came  out  of  college 
with  a  reputation  and  character  which  was  capital 
at  once.  Whether  the  good  aunty  did  not  feel 
somewhat  proud  of  her  John  as  he  went  with  her  to 
church  the  next  Sabbath,  —  her  boy  actually  through 
college,  —  and  whether  the  smile  of  Cynthia,  as 
they  met  at  the  door  of  the  church  by  the  merest 
accident,  was  not  a  little  triumphant,  I  will  not  un- 
dertake to  say.  But  Uncle  Jerry  looked  upon  him 
as  a  lost  boy.  He  wanted  hands,  and  not  heads,  — 
matter,  and  not  mind.  Every  body  said  that  John 
Doon  went  through  college  just  because  he  would 
go  ;  but  they  saw  no  use  in  having  folks  so  wilful 
and  determined.  What 's  the  use  in  putting  the  foot 
down  so  hard ! 

In  a  few  days  John  made  it  convenient  to  drop  in 
at  Uncle  Jerry's ;  and,  though  I  don't  pretend  to 
understand  it,  at  a  time  of  day  when  he  must  have 


THE    POOR    STUDENT.  Ill 


thought  most  likely  that  Uncle  Jerry  would  be  out. 
And  when  he  came  home,  he  found  him  there,  and 
saw  that  John  and  Cynthia  seemed  contented  and 
happy.  Uncle  Jerry  felt  rather  sour.  He  supposed 
that  a  college  was  a  good  place  enough,  but  it  al- 
ways seemed  a  pity  to  him  to  spoil  a  boy  who  was 
good  to  work,  by  sending  him  where  he  could  do 
nothing  but  study.  He  was  so  cold  and  crabbed, 
though  he  tried  hard  to  be  civil,  that  John  forgot  his 
errand  to  him,  if  he  had  any,  and  soon  left.  After 
he  was  gone,  Uncle  Jerry  sat  and  looked  in  the  fire. 
Cynthia  examined  her  knitting-work.  Harder  and 
harder  did  Uncle  Jerry  gaze  into  the  fire.  He  put 
one  hand  on  each  knee,  and  opened  the  palms  of 
his  hands  as  if  to  warm  them.  At  length  he  said, 
without  looking  off  the  fire,  — 

"  What,  in  nater,  is  John  Boon  going  to  do  for  a 
living  now  ?  I  'd  like  to  know  that !  " 

"  He  is  going  to  study  theology,  I  believe,"  said 
Cynthia,  and  faster  and  faster  flew  her  knitting- 
needles. 

"  Theology  !  to  be  rt  minister,  I  suppose  !  Why, 
he  '11  starve  to  death  !  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  They  call  him  a  promising  young 
man." 

"  Promising  !  Eh  !  Well,  we  shall  see.  For  my 
part,  I  think  it 's  a  mighty  easy  way,  when  people  get 
too  lazy  to  work,  to  put  themselves  upon  other  peo- 
ple, and  make  them  support  them !  Why  can't  he 
go  to  work  on  the  farm,  and  earn  something  ?  " 

"  How  much  could  he  earn  on  a  farm,  do  you 
suppose  ?  " 


112  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Why,  a  hundred,  or  a  hundred  and  twenty  dol- 
lars !  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  is  to  have  six  hundred  dollars  this 
year  for  teaching." 

"  The  deuce  he  is  !  Now,  I  don't  believe  that ! 
Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  He  himself." 

"  Indeed  !  And  how  comes  John  Doon  —  poor 
as  poverty  —  to  come  to  you  with  his  secrets.  I  '11 
tell  you  what,  girl,  I  do  n't  like  that  fellow,  and  the 
sooner  he  knows  it,  the  better.  That 's  all.  So  de- 
pend upon  it,  he  shall  know  it.  That 's  all." 

Out  of  the  house  Uncle  Jerry  flung  himself  in  full 
wrath  against  poor  John  for  two  crimes,  first,  for 
being  poor,  and  second,  for  having  made  Cynthia 
his  friend.  When  the  human  heart  wants  the  Devil 
to  aid  him,  the  Devil  always  gets  wind  of  it,  and  is 
ready.  Joe  Hunt  was  in  sight.  Now  Joe  hated  the 
student  mortally,  first,  for  the  same  reasons  that 
Uncle  Jerry  hated  him,  and  second,  because,  on  a 
certain  occasion,  when  Joe  had  made  too  free  with 
Mr.  Howell's  hen-roost,  John  had  met  him  in  the 
hands  of  the  constable,  and  had  delivered  him  from 
the  gripe  of  the  law  at  the  expense  of  half  his  purse. 
Joe  could  never  forgive  him  the  kindness. 

"  Joe,  what  have  you  been  doing  all  the  after- 


noon ? 


"  Getting  the  grain  and  corn  for  Mr.  Howell,  — 
six  bushels  of  each.  He  said  you  told  him  to  come 
and  get  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  you  can't  measure  grain.  Why  did  n't 
you  wait  till  I  came  home  ?  " 


THE    POOR   STUDENT.  113 

"  Cause  Mr.  Howell  wanted  to  go  right  off  to  mill. 
I  measured  it  just  as  you  do." 

"  How 's  that  ?  " 

"  Put  it  in  lightly  with  the  shovel,  and  was  careful 
not  to  hit  and  jar  the  half-bushel  measure.  I  did  n't 
heap  it  up  as  you  do  when  you  send  to  mill  your- 
self." 

"  Well,  I  wonder  when  I  'm  to  get  my  pay  for 
this  grain,  and  for  the  cider.  Did  Mr.  Howell  say 
any  thing  about  it  ?  " 

"  No.  But  I  heard  him  say  the  other  day,  if  John 
Doon  would  pay  his  note,  he  could  pay  you  up." 

"  John  Boon's  note  !  What  does  John  Doon  owe 
him  for,  and  how  much  ?  " 

"  Why,  when  his  aunt  was  sick  last  summer,  Mr. 
Howell  took  care  of  her,  and  all  that,  and  John  had 
no  money,  —  the  poor  coot,  —  and  so  he  gave  him 
his  note  for  thirty  dollars." 

"  I  understand.  I  would  take  that  note  for  pay, 
just  to  oblige  Mr.  Howell,  if  he  would  give  it  up. 
Do  you  think  he  'd  be  willing  ?  " 

"  It  's  easy  to  make  him  willing." 

Uncle  Jerry's  eye  twinkled,  and  Joe's  eye  snapped ; 
they  knew  that  they  mutually  understood  each  other. 

The  night  following  was  dark ;  but  not  so  dark 
but  that  Mr.  Howell's  old  mare,  Kate,  found  her  way 
into  Uncle  Jerry's  six-acre  oat-field.  She  was  (P 
peaceable  old  jade  usually,  but  that  night  it  seemed 
as  if  the  spirit  of  mischief  must  have  rode  or  driven 
her.  Over  and  over  the  field  she  went,  crosswise, 
and  lengthwise,  and  in  all  directions.  It  would  seem 
10* 


114  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

that  she  must  have  travelled  hard  and  fast  to  do  so 
much  mischief.  With  a  long  face  did  poor  Howell 
go,  the  next  morning,  to  Uncle  Jerry,  and  tell  him 
of  the  doings  of  old  Kate,  and  make  his  apologies. 
With  hasty  strides  did  Uncle  Jerry  go  to  his  field, 
and  behold  the  injury  it  had  received.  With  a  low 
chuckle  did  Joe  Hunt  see  them  go.  Uncle  Jerry 
was  too  warm  to  have  his  anger  put  in  print.  He 
stamped,  and  raved,  and  threatened,  till  he  had  com- 
pletely subdued  old  Kate's  owner.  And  he  came 
away  with  thirty  ddllars  damages,  and  with  poor  John 
Boon's  note  made  over  to  him,  instead  of  the  money. 
Then  he  felt  better.  A  great  noise  it  made  among 
the  neighbors,  —  the  ruin  of  the  oat-field,  and  the 
damages  caused  thereby.  The  same  day,  old  Kate 
carried  her  master  down  to  John  Boon's  house,  to 
inform  him  of  the  calamity,  and  of  the  transfer  of 
the  note.  John  heard  it  all  very  coolly,  asked  some 
questions  about  the  fences,  the  habits  of  Kate,  and 
the  like,  and  went  home  with  Mr.  Howell.  Nobody 
could  guess  why.  In  the  mean  time,  Uncle  Jerry 
had  called  on  the  little  dapper  lawyer  that  always 
sat  in  his  office  like  a  small  spider,  with  his  eye  wide 
open,  and,  like  the  spider,  caught  none  but  very  small 
game.  The  note  against  John  was  to  be  sued  at 

ce.     The  lawyer  was  glad  and  prompt. 

All  the  afternoon  had  John  Boon  been  examining 
the  oat-field  alone.  Just  at  night,  Mr.  Howell  came 
to  him. 

"  Mr.  Howell,  is  old  Kate  easy  to  be  caught  by  a 
stranger  ?  " 


THE    POOR    STUDENT.  115 

"  No.  Unless  a  stranger  knew  her  pretty  well,  he 
could  not  catch  her.  But  I  have  no  difficulty." 

"  Do  you  have  to  carry  a  dish  of  oats  in  order  to 
catch  her  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  do,  but  not  often." 

"  Have  you  carried  oats  lately  ?  " 

"No.  But  my  wife  caught  her  with  an  ear  of 
corn,  last  week." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  not  oats  that  she  used  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  have  not  had  an  oat  in  the  house  for  a 
year." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Howell,  you  have  been  imposed  upon 
and  injured.  That  horse  of  yours  never  did  that 
mischief  without  aid." 

"  I  thought  the  Evil  One  must  have  helped  her." 

"  An  evil-minded  one,  to  be  sure.  I  find  the  field 
gone  through  very  nearly  straight,  as  when  men 
plough,  and  the  horse  went  quite  through  it,  and 
then  turned  round  and  went  almost  straight  back 
again ;  and  then  I  find  that  in  some  places  she  trot- 
ted, and  here  and  there  pulled  up  a  mouthful  of  oats 
and  ate  them  as  she  went  along,  and  she  kept  agoing. 
Now  a  horse  does  not  do  so  of  his  own  accord. 
Then  I  found  a  few  oats  scattered  in  her  pasture, 
which  she  must  have  spilled  while  being  bridled  ;  and 
then  I  found  this  little  strap,  which  may  be  a  throaty 
latch  to  a  new  bridle,  and  lastly,  I  found  the  tracks* 
of  a  man  just  by  the  brook  where  she  was  caught. 
She  was  ridden  through  the  field  by  somebody.  Of 
that  I  feel  certain  !  " 

"  Well,  well ;   who  would  have   thought  of  it  ? 


116  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

Does  going  to  college  make  every  body  so  'cute  ? 
It  's  just  as  plain  as  day.  But  who  do  you  think  did 
it  ?  I  can't  think  my  neighbors  would." 

"  Whose  throat-latch  do  you  think  this  to  be  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  looks  as  if  it  belonged  to  Cynthia  Hull's 
new  bridle." 

"  And  those  square-toed  tracks  look  to  me  as  if 
they  belonged  to  Joe  Hunt,  your  friend  of  the  hen- 
roost memory." 

"  Did  you  ever  !  Now  that  's  just  it !  I  could 
swear  it  was  Joe." 

"  No,  you  could  not.  But  you  could  swear  it  looks 
so  like  him,  that  you  believe  it  was  Joe." 

"  Well,  well,  —  but  what 's  that  white  stuff  in  your 
hand  ?  " 

"  Plaster  of  Paris." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  You  shall  see.  Just  call  your  hired  man,  whom 
I  see  yonder,  that  he  may  see  what  I  do." 

The  hired  man  came  ;  and  great  was  their  wonder 
to  see  Doon  make  a  cast  of  two  footprints  by  the 
brook,  so  perfect  that  the  very  nail-heads  were  every 
one  to  be  seen. 

"  Now  if  that  don't  beat  all !  What  good  will 
these  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Howell,  if  we  can  find  a  bridle  which 
this  throat-latch  will  fit,  and  a  pair  of  shoes  that  an- 
swer to  these  casts,  we  shall  come  near  the  rogue, 
shan't  we  ?  " 

"  Well,  who  'd  have  thought  of  it  ?  Why,  you  are 
as  'cute  as  a  lawyer,  and  I  thought  you  was  to  make 
only  a  minister." 


THE   POOR   STUDENT.  117 

"  A  minister  wants  common  sense,  and  the  power 
of  reasoning,  don't  he  ?  But  say  not  a  word  about 
all  this  till  I  see  you  again.  Let  your  hired  man 
keep  these  casts  safe  till  we  want  them.  Don't  show 
them,  nor  break  them.  Good  night." 

About  a  week  after  this,  an  officer  called  on  John 
Doon  with  a  writ  for  his  note.  His  instructions  were 
to  obtain  the  money  or  the  body.  In  vain  he  begged 
the  officer  to  allow  him  time  to  consult  his  friends. 
In  vain  he  represented  that  being  taken  to  jail  would 
injure  him  as  a  teacher  in  the  town  where  he  expect- 
ed to  be  located  in  a  few  weeks,  if  not  days.  In  vain 
poor  old  aunt  wept,  and  "  took  on,"  as  if  John  were 
about  to  be  hung,  "  and  all,"  she  said,  "  out  of  kind- 
ness to  her."  The  officer  was  a  kind-hearted  man, 
and  told  John  that,  on  his  own  responsibility,  though 
at  an  increased  expense,  he  would  "  give  him  a  day 
to  turn  himself  in."  Thankfully  John  accepted  it. 

In  a  few  hours,  he  and  Mr.  Howell,  and  the  hired 
man,  were  seen  coming  up  to  Uncle  Jerry's  gate. 
At  the  gate  stood  Cynthia's  pony,  saddled  and  ready 
for  her  to  ride.  Uncle  Jerry  saw  them ;  and,  hav- 
ing an  instinctive  feeling  that  their  visit  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  John's  being  sued,  he  came  out  to 
meet  them. 

"  Mr.  Hull,"  said  Doon,  "  I  was  sued  last  night, 
at  your  direction,  I  understand." 

"  Very  likely.  I  was  in  hopes  you  was  in  jail  be- 
fore this." 

"  Thank  you  for  your  good  wishes.  But  you  took 
my  note  from  Mr.  Howell  for  damages  which  his 


118  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

horse  did  to  your  oat-field.  Had  it  not  been  for  that, 
you  would  not  have  had  the  note,  and  would  not 
have  sued  me." 

Uncle  Jerry  nodded  assent. 

"  Well,  now,  suppose  I  can  prove  that  you  your- 
self did  all  that  mischief  to  the  oats,  would  you  then 
have  sued  the  note  ?  " 

"  Does  the  fellow  mean  to  insult  me  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  But  won't  you  please  call  Joe 
Hunt  here  ? " 

Joe  came,  dogged,  and  looking  askance,  as  if  he 
felt  that  something  was  in  the  wind.  As  he  came 
up,  Doon  said  to  Uncle  Jerry,  "  How  comes  it  that 
Miss  Cynthia's  new  white  bridle  has  an  old  black 
throat-latch  ?  " 

Uncle  Jerry  looked,  and  so  it  was.  He  frowned 
at  Joe,  and  Joe  declared  it  was  lost,  —  he  knew  not 
when  nor  where. 

"  I  know  when  and  where.  Now,  Joe,  when  you 
caught  the  old  mare,  that  night  you  rode  her  so  many 
hours  in  the  oat-field,  what  did  you  do  with  the  oat- 
dish  with  which  you  caught  her  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  have  no  oat-dish." 

"  I  know  you  did  n't  Joe,  any  dish ;  and  so  you 
took  your  cap,  and  in  eating  the  oats  old  Kate  tore 
out  a  piece  of  the  lining.  Here  it  is ;  let  us  see  how 
it  fits." 

Joe  looked  this  way  and  that  way,  and  began  to 
run.  But  the  hired  man  tripped  up  his  heels,  and 
then  took  his  cap  and  shoes  off.  The  piece  of  lining 
told  its  story  on  being  placed  in  the  cap,  and  the 


THE   POOR   STUDENT.  119 

shoes  and  the  casts  seemed  to  laugh  at  their  relation- 
ship. Boon  then  recapitulated  the  evidence  which 
he  had,  that  Joe  had  done  the  mischief. 

Uncle  Jerry's  chin  fell.  He  stood  amazed.  At 
length  he  said,  solemnly,  "  John  Doon,  do  you  be- 
lieve that  /  knew  of  this  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  believe  you  have  been  im- 
posed upon,  first  by  your  own  prejudices,  and  then 
by  Joe  Hunt,  who  is  not  far  from  state's  prison,  as  I 
fear." 

Just  then  the  officer  came  up,  in  great  haste  and 
trepidation. 

"  Mr.  Clark,  you  may  stop  that  suit  against  John 
Doon.  It  was  a  mistake." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  But,  Mr.  Hull,  I  am  not  after 
him,  but  you.'1'1 

"  Me  !  well,  what  of  me  ?  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  can  have  against  me !  Thank  God,  I  have 
known  how  to  take  care  of  myself." 

"Mr.  Hull,  the  Wilsons  have  failed,  —  broke  all 
to  pieces." 

"  I  heard  so  this  morning.  Poor  fellows,  they 
were  too  venturesome." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  you  are  holden  for 
the  notes  you " 

"  I  never  signed  any  notes.  I  only,  just  for  the 
form,  put  my  name  on  a  bit  of  paper  now  and  then." 

"  And  those  bits  of  paper  were  notes  to  the  bank, 
and  you  are  held  for  thirty  thousand  dollars" 

Uncle  Jerry  trembled,  and  staggered,  and  partly 
fell,  and  partly  sat  down  on  the  ground.  He  said 


120  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

not  a  word  more.  And  while  the  officer  proceeded 
to  attach  all  his  goods,  lands,  cattle,  even  to  the  pony 
of  his  daughter,  Doon  was  trying  to  comfort  and  sus- 
tain him.  They  helped  the  old  man  into  the  house, 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed.  John  told  Cynthia  the 
whole  story  frankly ;  but  she  was  young,  and  did 
not  know  what  it  was  to  want  or  to  earn  money. 
She  only  felt  for  her  father.  And  truly  the  blow  did 
almost  kill  him.  John  Doon  stayed  by  his  bedside, 
soothed  him,  and  helped  to  comfort  him.  Most  faith- 
fully did  he  tell  the  old  man  that  he  thought  that  cov- 
etousness  had  been  his  besetting  sin,  and  that  the 
demon  of  avarice  had  hardened  his  heart,  and  made 
him  forget  the  object  for  which  he  was  created,  made 
him  forget  his  religious  professions  and  his  solemn 
vows  to  Heaven.  And  gently  did  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord  deepen  these  impressions,  and  open  his  eyes. 
He  put  his  business  in  John's  hands,  and  he  was  en- 
abled to  compromise  with  the  creditors  of  Wilson,  so 
as  to  save  about  half  of  the  property.  He  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  work,  and  in  a  year  presented  all  the 
receipts  and  accounts,  and  a  balance-sheet,  showing 
just  how  matters  stood.  The  old  man  said  that  John 
was  a  son,  and  what  he  should  do  without  him  he 
could  not  tell.  Cynthia  blushed,  and  hinted  that  she 
thought  it  might  be  arranged  so  as  not  to  do  without 
him. 

"  Well,  child,  if  you  can  arrange  it  so,  I  'm  sure 
it  will  suit  me." 

Cynthia  said  she  would  "  see  about  it." 


MOUNT   KATAHDIN. 


WE  were  now  up,  far  up,  the  east  branch  of  the 
Penobscot,  where  the  Quasatiquoik  (spearing  river) 
comes  in.  Here  we  landed  all  our  equipage  and 
provisions,  drew  the  canoes  up,  and  hid  them  in  the 
woods,  preparatory  to  seeking  the  Katahdin  Moun- 
tain. The  Quasatiquoik  is  so  fierce  and  rocky  a 
stream,  that  no  boat  can  travel  on  it.  It  passes 
through  most  wild  scenery  ;  and  in  one  place  is  a 
most  remarkable  cave  or  house,  —  such  a  one  as  a 
hermit  might  envy.  We  left  it  to  our  men  to  select 
the  provisions,  telling  them  that  we  might  be  gone  a 
week,  and  might  have  no  food  besides  what  we  car- 
ried. They  were  confident  of  catching  moose  and 
fish.  The  sequel  will  show  how  well  this  confidence 
was  grounded. 

The  distance  we  now  had  to  travel  through  woods 
and  swamps,  wading  rivers  and  floundering  in  miry 
places,  was  estimated  from  fifteen  to  twenty  miles, 
which  is  equal  to  thrice  the  same  distance  in  a  set- 
tled country.  We  took  our  tent,*blankets,  overcoats, 


122  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

rifles,  provisions,  &.C.,  amounting  to  heavy  loads  for 
the  back.  In  going  into  the  woods  you  should  al- 
ways calculate  for  one  and  a  quarter  pounds  of  pro- 
visions daily,  for  each  one ;  for  although  you  may 
not  want  so  much,  others  will  want  more.  We,  cal- 
culating for  a  week,  and  five  in  number,  had,  or  ought 
to  have  had,  forty-four  pounds  of  provisions.  We 
did  not  have  this  amount,  as  the  event  proved.  After 
getting  every  thing  adjusted,  as  well  as  we  could,  we 
set  out,  no  one  of  our  number  ever  having  been  over 
the  ground  before.  It  was  intensely  hot,  and  as  we 
staggered  along  under  a  burning  sun,  in  Indian  file, 
now  fighting  the  flies,  and  now  looking  out  for  trees 
that  were  marked,  the  miles  seemed  very  long  indeed. 
The  trees  were  tall,  and  all  the  forest  looked  so  much 
alike  that  nothing  marked  our  progress.  Add  to  this, 
our  guides  were  any  thing  but  cheerful  and  pleasant. 
Promises  they  had  made  us  which  they  now  refused 
to  fulfil,  and  we  had  the  mortification  of  leaving  in 
the  wilderness  a  part  of  our  apparatus,  to  our  loss  of 
property  and  great  disappointment.  There  was  no 
help.  Then  our  boy  was  taken  sick  with  cholera 
symptoms.  But  we  had  provided  ourselves  with  a 
cholera  mixture,  and  gave  him  his  doses  prompt  and 
often.  It  was  painful  to  see  the  poor  fellow  wilt 
down,  as  if  he  would  fail  in  the  vast  forest.  He  was 
pale,  thin,  and  truly  sick.  We  had  nothing  to  rely 
upon  but  our  medicine  and  the  blessing  of  Heaven. 
We  had  more  fears  than  we  told  of ;  but  nature  an- 
swered to  the  remedy,  and  the  disease  yielded.  On- 
ward we  plodded,  now  swallowed  up  in  the  great 


MOUNT   KATAHDIN.  123 

forest,  and  now  out  on  the  banks  of  the  wild,  roaring, 
but  beautiful  Quasatiquoik.  On  its  banks  our  tent 
would  sometimes  be  pitched,  our  teakettle  hung  on 
the  pole,  over  the  camp-fire,  while  the  hard  sailor's 
bread  was  roasting,  and  the  small  piece  of  pork  was 
frying.  This  was  our  food  three  times  a  day,  and  it 
became  very  wearisome.  Sometimes,  indeed,  our 
guides  would  make  what  they  call  "  dunderfunk," 
made  in  this  wise  :  the  sea-bread  soaked  in.  water, 
crumbled  fine,  fried  in  pork  fat,  and  then  sweetened 
with  molasses,  or  sugar,  if  you  can't  get  molasses. 
They  seemed  to  like  it,  but  our  taste  was  too  unso- 
phisticated to  admire  it.  We  had  a  little  flour,  but 
that  we  kept  for  some  special  occasions.  In  the 
course  of  our  tour  we  had  occasion  more  than  once 
to  feel  grateful  towards  the  Rev.  Mr.  Keep,  whose 
hatchet  for  the  last  five  or  seven  miles  had  done  a 
great  and  good  work  in  cutting  out  a  kind  of  path, 
and  marking  the  trees.  It  must  have  cost  him  great 
labor,  and  no  one  who  had  not  been  to  Katahdin  and- 
wanted  to  go  again  would  ever  have  attempted  it. 
We  wished  it  could  remain  as  he  left  it ;  but  every 
tree  that  falls  across  the  course,  and  every  winter 
that  returns,  obliterates  something  of  the  way.  More 
than  once  we  found  ourselves  scattered  and  hunting 
for  marked  trees,  and  shouting  for  each  other. 

We  came  out  at  "  Katahdin  Pond,"  at  its  outlet. 
It  is  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  embedded  in  the  deep 
forest,  perhaps  two  miles  long,  with  islands  in  it.  It 
seemed  a  solitary  thing,  calm  and  coy,  discharging 
its  waters  in  the  deep  woods,  as  if  every  thing  per- 


124  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

taining  to  it  was  mysterious.  It  is  said  to  abound  in 
trout,  which  we  could  neither  affirm  nor  deny.  We 
should  have  been  thankful  for  enough  for  a  single 
rneal,  but  found  them  not.  But  here,  at  the  pond, 
the  mighty  Katahdin  rose  up  in  solitary  grandeur. 
He  burst  upon  us  at  once,  and  in  such  gigantic  pro- 
portions, that  we  for  a  time  forgot  our  fatigue,  and 
pushed  on  round  the  pond  in  a  deep  cedar  swamp. 
How  long  the  way  did  seem  !  Here  night  overtook 
us,  and  down  we  lay,  on  the  cold,  wet  ground,  with 
huge  camp-fires  all  around  us  to  keep  off  the  flies, 
and  too  weary  to  pitch  our  tent. 

Katahdin,  we  judged,  was  still  two  or  three  miles 
off.  The  next  morning,  Friday,  we  followed  the 
cuttings  and  the  moose-paths,  till,  about  noon,  we 
emerged  into  a  rocky,  sandy  opening,  through  which 
two  brooks  were  brawling  and  dashing  over  the  rocks, 
and  whose  waters  were  as  pure  as  waters  could  be. 
Katahdin  was  now  close  by,  and  these  streams  bathed 
his  feet.  But  how  and  where  to  ascend  his  steep, 
lofty,  wooded  sides,  we  could  not  see.  Here  we  had 
lost  all  clew  to  the  path,  and  in  no  way  could  we 
recover  it.  We  followed  one  of  the  brooks  up  a  mile, 
and  then  turned  to  the  right,  into  a  gorge  that  seemed 
to  open  into  the  mountain.  It  was  a  brook  of  the 
purest  water,  trickling,  in  this  dry  time,  over  the 
rocks,  which  were  large,  and  which  were  hard  to 
climb  over.  The  brook's  bed  rose,  so  that  we  climb- 
ed hundreds  of  feet  in  a  very  short  distance.  Here, 
on  a  kind  of  shelf,  we  raised  our  tent.  The  gorge 
was  so  deep,  and  the  trees  so  lofty  and  thick,  that  the 


MOUNT    KATAHDIN.  125 

sun  never  looked  in  here.  By  this  time  it  began  to 
rain  hard,  and  though  we  spent  all  the  afternoon 
searching  for  the  path  up,  at  night  we  had  found  none. 
Saturday  it  rained  all  day,  and  all  day,  drenched  in 
rain,  we  searched  for  miles  up  and  down  the  big 
brook,  but  found  no  path,  no  opening  to  the  moun- 
tain's top.  Just  at  night  we  were  standing  among 
the  rocks,  and  gazing  up  among  the  clouds  that  hung 
around  the  head  of  the  monarch  of  Maine,  when, 
almost  instantly,  the  clouds  were  lifted  up,  and  the 
bare  and  bald  head  of  Katahdin  was  revealed.  O, 
how  lofty,  and  cold,  and  naked,  and  near  it  seemed  ! 
It  was  but  for  a  moment,  when,  with  a  grace  that 
would  do  credit  to  a  French  posture-master,  he  drew 
on  his  night-cap  again,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Good 
night,  gentlemen."  Good  night !  glorious  mountain  ! 
But  we  must  become  better  acquainted. 

It  was  now  Saturday  night,  and,  owing  to  sickness 
and  other  hinderances,  we  had  been  almost  a  week 
from  our  canoes,  and  our  provisions  were  almost  gone. 
By  close  computation  we  had  only  sufficient  for  four 
meals  more,  and  the  mountain  had  not  yet  been 
climbed.  To-morrow  was  the  Sabbath,  and  our  pro- 
vision-bag was  nearly  twenty  miles  off,  through  the 
forest !  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Our  guides  proposed 
that,  as  it  had  rained  all  day,  we  should  consider  that 
as  Sabbath,  and  climb  the  mountain  next  day.  We 
had  set  our  hearts  on  having  some  biscuit  from  our 
flour,  but  when  Nicola  had  gotten  his  huge  birch 
bark  in  which  to  knead  them,  it  was  found  that  the 
rain  had  spoiled  our  soda,  and  we  had  nothing  to  do 
11* 


126  .         SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

but  to  see  mm  wet  the  flour  up  with  water  from  the 
brook,  open  the  ashes  and  bake  it  in  the  embers,  and 
then  take  his  stocking,  which  he  had  worn  a  fortnight, 
and  wipe  off  the  ashes.  This  last  labor  was  with  the 
special  design  of  showing  "  the  gentlemen  how  well 
Indian  cook."  We  made  no  complaint,  knowing 
that  we  might  shortly  be  glad  of  such  food  as  that. 
So  we  spent  another  night,  and  the  Sabbath  in  this 
wild  gorge.  In  great  pain  all  the  day,  and  under  the 
influence  of  frequent  doses  of  "  cholera  mixture,"  I 
remember  but  little  about  the  day,  excepting  that  at 
night  we  had  but  two  scant  meals  left,  though  we 
had  been  sparing  that  day.  How  often  during  the 
following  night  did  I  creep  to  the  tent's  door,  and 
look  up  among  the  tall,  beautiful  silver  furs,  to  see  if 
any  stars  were  to  be  seen,  giving  promise  of  a  fair 
to-morrow  !  And  how  I  hailed  one  or  two,  just  past 
midnight,  as  they  sent  their  tiny  rays  down  to  our 
tent !  It  seemed  as  if  we  must  starve,  or  else  lose 
the  great  object  of  our  toils  in  coming  to  Katahdin, 
unless  it  should  be  clear  weather  on  the  morrow. 
My  anxiety  and  excitement  kept  me  awake  all  the 
night.  At  length  signs  of  the  dawn  appeared. 

Long  had  I  watched  the  bright  stars,  as  they 
rolled  over  the  deep  gorge  in  which  we  were  en- 
camped, and  which  looked  so  clear  and  sparkling 
up  through  the  tall  fir-trees  that  lined  the  gorge. 
At  length  the  soft  gold  and  silver  of  the  dawn  ap- 
peared, and  at  half  past  three  we  were  all  up,  our 
fire  was  glowing,  and  our  last  poor  meal  but  one  was 
ready.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  We  had  not  ascend- 


MOUNT    KATAHD1N.  127 

ed  the  mountain,  one  great  object  of  all  our  fatigue, 
and  we  were  nearly  twenty  miles  from  food,  through 
a  forest  primeval.  There  was  little  time  for  doubt ; 
so  we  packed  up  the  tent,  our  blankets,  and  as  much 
luggage  as  poor  Orne  could  carry,  gave  him  his  share 
of  our  crumbs,  a  piece  of  pork  as  large  as  a  butter- 
nut, and  told  him  to  put  for  dear  life  as  fast  as  he 
could,  get  at  our  food,  and  come  back  and  meet  us, 
as  fast  as  he  could.  With  a  heavy  load,  and  a  look 
that  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  be 
starved  when  I  see  you  next,"  he  turned  his  face 
outward,  and  we  prepared  to  ascend  the  mountain. 
With  each  of  us  a  long  pole,  the  Indian  with  the  tea- 
kettle full  of  water,  and  the  little  pocket-compass  in 
the  hand,  we  left  our  camp-fire  as  soon  as  it  was  fully 
light.  Up  the  gorge  and  up  over  the  huge  rocks  we 
clambered,  keeping  in  the  ravine  perhaps  a  mile,  or 
a  mile  and  a  half.  We  then  struck  off  through  the 
thick  hemlocks,  two  points  west  of  north  by  the 
compass.  Then  we  climbed  over  rocks,  and  through 
large  thick-set  trees  for  perhaps  another  mile,  all  the 
while  rising  up.  Then  came  the  white  birches, 
growing  smaller  and  smaller,  till  they  were  dwarfed 
down  to  mere  bushes.  Then  we  emerged,  and  found 
ourselves  ascending  a  ridge  of  the  mountain,  too  far 
up  for  the  trees  to  grow.  We  had  now  small  bushes 
and  huge  rocks  lying  in  every  possible  position, 
then  the  bushes  grew  tiny  and  small,  till  we  were 
beyond  them,  where  the  mountain  cranberry,  about 
three  inches  high,  and  the  cariboo  moss  find  a  home. 
It  was  very  steep,  and  the  height  was  already  such, 


128  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

and  the  ridge  so  narrow,  that  unconsciously  some  of 
us  were  creeping.  At  length,  after  hours  of  almost 
breathless  labor,  we  were  on  the  first  eminence  or 
peak.  And  now  what  sensations  !  This,  then,  is  Ka- 
tahdin,  and  we  are  on  it.  It  seems  like  dreaming. 
The  mountain  is  a  thick  crust  of  granite,  heaved  up 
by  some  awful  and  mysterious  agency,  in  the  midst  of 
the  plain  between  the  two  branches  of  the  Penobscot. 
It  is  over  five  thousand  feet  high,  —  nearly  as  lofty 
as  the  highest  of  the  White  Mountains ;  but  it  stands 
alone,  solitary,  naked,  and  awful.  It  is  shaped  like 
a  horse-shoe,  and  supposing  the  horse-shoe  to  lie 
bottom  side  upwards,  with  its  toe  towards  the  north, 
we  were  on  the  left  point  of  the  heel.  The  highest 
summit  is  where  the  toe  or  middle  of  the  shoe  should 
be.  The  space  between  was  a  chasm,  —  a  wall  of 
solid,  naked  rocks,  about  two  miles  in  diameter. 
Now  our  desire  and  ambition  was  to  reach  the  high- 
est summit.  To  go  to  it,  you  must  descend  two  hun- 
dred feet  almost  perpendicularly,  and  then  up  again 
over  a  chimney  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high. 
Then  you  go  along  on  a  narrow  ridge,  like  the  apex 
of  a  roof  of  a  house,  except  when  you  come  to  these 
chimneys,  about  a  dozen  of  which  you  must  climb 
over.  The  ridge-  is  in  no  place  probably  over  a 
yard  wide,  and  in  one  place  but  five  inches.  On 
either  side  it  is  so  steep,  that  you  might  toss  a  biscuit, 
and  have  it  fall  two  thousand  or  twenty-five  hundred 
feet  before  it  struck  against  any  thing.  Our  Indian 
declared  that  it  was  impossible  to  pass  over  these 
chimneys  and  this  ridge.  But  I  set  out  alone,  deter- 


MOUNT   KATAHDIN.  129 

mined  to  "  try."  My  companion  and  the  Indian  fol- 
lowed, but  the  boy  was  too  much  exhausted  to  at- 
tempt it,  and  I  was  very  glad  he  did  not.  At  the  first 
chimney,  I  had  to  lift  myself  up  perpendicularly  five 
feet ;  but  up,  up  you  climb,  over  chimney  and  ridge, 
chimney  and  ridge,  for  at  least  a  mile  and  a  half, 
knowing  that,  at  almost  any  and  every  step,  were 
you  to  fall,  you  would  go  twenty-five  hundred  feet 
before  you  stopped.  Sometimes  you  pause  and  roll 
down  a  stone  or  two,  and  are  amazed  at  the  length  of 
time  it  takes  to  reach  the  bottom,  bounding  hundreds 
of  feet,  and  echoing  at  every  leap,  till  it  rests  in  the 
chasm.  At  the  bottom,  and  up  in  that  chasm,  is  a 
forest  and  a  little  pond.  The  forest  seems  to  be  not 
over  six  inches  high,  and  the  pond  a  mere  basin. 
And  now  onward.  You  become  so  excited  that  you 
forget  the  danger  and  the  deaths  which  you  can  al- 
most see  looking  up  on  each  side.  At  one  point  you 
may  creep  out  and  hold  in  your  hand  a  line,  with  a 
lead  on  it,  and  it  will  hang  one  thousand  feet  perpen- 
dicularly. At  length  you  reach  the  apex,  —  the  toe 
of  the  horse-shoe,  and  find  a  square  spot  on  which 
to  pause,  it  may  be  a  yard  square.  You  now  find 
you  have  not  to  boast  that  you  are  the  first  who  has 
trodden  that  dangerous  and  giddy  ridge,  for  here  is 
a  little  pile  of  stones  that  some  human  hand  hath 
erected,  and  on  it  a  button,  three  small  shot,  and  a 
piece  of  pipe-stem  half  an  inch  long.  Now  look 
about  you.  You  breathe  easy,  and  feel  every  nerve 
strung  up  to  a  high  state  of  tension.  Even  Nicola, 
in  his  huge  boots,  bounded  like  a  deer,  and  said, 


130  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  We  feel  all  lightness  up  here."  But  in  looking 
back  over  the  ridge  that  you  have  come,  it  seems 
utterly  impossible  that  you  can  ever  return,  or  that  a 
human  being  can  climb  back  over  those  chimneys. 
The  heart  sinks  at  the  very  thought  of  the  task. 

But  forget  all  this,  and  what  is  the  great  impres- 
sion ?  Your  first  feeling  is,  you  want  to  be  and 
must  be  alone.  When  I  reached  the  summit,  my 
companion  and  guide  were  more  than  half  a  mile  off, 
and  right  glad  I  was.  I  did  not  want  to  see  or  hear 
any  thing  human.  I  did  not  want  any  one  to  ask, 
What  means  the  tear  in  your  eye  ?  You  are  com- 
muning with  nature  and  with  nature's  God,  and  you 
feel  as  if  you  had  no  right  to  be  there.  At  every  few 
minutes  the  wind  draws  into  the  chasm,  and  in  an  in- 
stant the  air  is  condensed  into  a  cloud,  and  up  it  rolls 
towards  you,  up,  higher  and  higher,  and  all  is  thick 
cloud  beneath  and  over  you,  and  about  you,  and 
then  it  floats  off,  light  and  gladsome,  and  the  chasm 
is  there,  —  the  cloud-former! — clear  and  deep  and 
awful,  just  as  it  was  before.  Perhaps  we  saw  clouds 
created  a  dozen  times  in  that  hopper.  All  the  rest 
seemed  like  an  unfinished  part  of  creation.  But  oh  ! 
how  beautifully  were  those  clouds  made,  finished,  and 
sent  off,  floating  in  the  glad  sunlight !  At  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  were  several  beautiful  ponds.  In 
one  of  these  two  huge  moose  came  to  feed.  With 
the  naked  eye  they  looked  like  ducks,  but  the  spy- 
glass gave  them  their  true  dimensions  and  shape. 
They  probably  never  saw  a  man.  At  the  south  lay 
Mrllinocket  Lake,  with  its  beautiful  islands,  and  the 


MOUNT    KATAHDIN.  131 

smoke  of  the  hunters'  fires  all  around,  as  they  were 
drying  their  moose-meat.  And  there  was  Maine, — 
all  a  forest  unbroken,  save  by  her  grand  river,  which 
.looked  like  a  ribbon  of  silver.  There  were  her  lakes, 
probably  one  hundred  or  one  hundred  and  fifty,  in 
sight,  looking  like  so  many  pieces  of  looking-glasses 
broken  and  scattered  in  the  forest.  Beautiful  Moose- 
head  Lake,  —  long  and  lovely  ;  Chesuncook,  the  Ea- 
gle Lakes  on  the  waters  of  the  St.  John's,  and  all  the 
rest,  —  there  they  are,  before  the  eye.  For  a  hun- 
dred miles  the  eye  sweeps  in  all  directions,  —  all  for- 
est unbroken,  and  looking  as  if  man  had  never  been 
in  it.  Nature  is  here  unfashioned  by  man,  stern, 
savage,  awful,  but  beautiful.  The  eye  rests  on  no 
garden,  cultivated  field,  lawn,  pasture  for  flock,  nor 
even  a  place  to  bury  the  dead.  It  is  the  home  of 
matter,  —  the  material  out  of  which  man  makes  his 
fields  and  his  gardens.  Here  the  winds,  untamed, 
hurry  and  dash  against  old  Katahdin,  and  the  clouds 
kiss  his  bare  forehead,  and  the  storms  bruise  his 
sides,  and  the  thunders  shout  and  roar  in  his  ears ; 
but  there  he  stands,  unmoved,  unaltered,  stern,  lone- 
ly, grand,  awful !  — just  as  God  made  him.  On  all 
sides  of  him  it  seems  as  if  it  must  have  rained  rocks 
ever  since  his  creation,  while  he  himself  stands  out, 
the  huge  skeleton  of  a  world.  You  can  hardly  com- 
mand your  thoughts,  classify  your  impressions,  or  re- 
alize that  the  scene  before  you,  and  the  monster  on 
whose  brow  you  feel  yourself  to  be  a  mere  atom,  are 
realities.  Great  cloud-maker!  —  grand  pedestal,  on 
which  we  almost  expect  to  see  the  footprints  of  the 


132  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

Almighty  !  —  before  I  was  born  you  was  here ! 
When  I  and  my  generation  are  all  in  the  grave,  here 
you  will  stand  unaltered  and  the  same,  lifting  up 
your  granite  head,  listening  to  the  whispers  of  the 
clouds,  the  roar  of  the  storm,  the  crash  of  thunders, 
and  still  proclaiming  the  power  of  God !  Here  na- 
ture has  piled  up  a  fearful  heap  of  rocks,  but  time 
has  begun  to  work,  too,  —  for  we  found  a  squirrel 
sitting  on  one  of  the  high  rocks,  far  up  among  the 
clouds,  and  we  plucked  beautiful  flowers  peeping  out 
from  the  mountain  rocks,  so  that  life  and  beauty  had 
climbed  up  here  and  begun  to  nestle  where  man  can- 
not live.  The  forest  is  vast  before* you,  —  immeas- 
urably so  to  the  eye.  The  lakes,  are  uncounted. 
The  clouds  hang  under  your  feet,  and  the  mountain 
seems  to  rise  and  swell  every  moment,  —  but  you 
feel  God  must  be  greater !  God  must  be  greater  ! 
This  mountain  will  crumble  down,  grain  by  grain, 
to  a  plain,  and  that  sun  will  go  out,  but  God  !  —  "  He 
is  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for  ever." 


THE  KING  COMING  BACK? 

'. 


ZADOK  and  ABIATHAB.  —  Scene  at  Jerusalem,  after  the  death  of 
Absalom. 

Zadok.  Speak  softly,  Abiathar,  the  curtains  of 
the  tabernacle  have  been  sadly  rent  lately,  and  we 
shall  be  overheard.  What  didst  thou  say  ? 

Abiathar.  They  tell  me  that  the  king  went  out 
of  the  city  cheerful,  as  if  he  did  not  regret  leaving  it. 

Zad.  They  tell  thee  wrong.  He  went  hastily, 
but  sadly.  I  saw  him  go  with  his  head  wrapped  in 
sackcloth,  and  when  he  had  reached  the  gate  on  the 
east  wall,  I  saw  him  turn  round  and  gaze  towards 
this  tabernacle,  and  bow  and  weep,  as  if  his  heart 
would  break. 

Abi.     Said  he  aught  then  ? 

Zad.  His  lips  moved,  but  he  uttered  nothing 
aloud.  I  doubt  not  he  felt  as  a  parent  would  when 
leaving  a  ship,  wrecked  on  the  stormy  coasts  of  Zi- 
don,  or  stranded  on  the  coasts  of  Ophir,  and  his  chil- 
dren on  board,  and  they  madly  drinking  spiced 
drinks. 

12 


134  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

Abi,  What  horrible  wickedness  in  Absalom,  to 
drive  the  good  old  king  away  from  his  home  and  his 
city  ! 

Zad.     It  was  not  Absalom  who  did  it. 

Abi.     Indeed  !    I  thought  he  did  all  the  mischief! 

Zad.  No.  Absalom  could  do  nothing  alone.  He 
must  have  others  to  aid  him,  —  to  run  before  his 
chariot,  —  to  crown  him  king,  and  to  proclaim  him. 
But,  after  all,  it  was  not  the  king's  enemies,  but  his 
friends,  that  drove  him  away. 

Abi.     How  can  that  be  ? 

Zad.  By  our  lukewarmness.  When  the  question 
was  put  whether  the  king  should  leave  us,  some  felt 
that  they  would  like  to  see  how  the  young  man 
would  look ;  some  thought  they  would  like  a  play- 
spell.  Some  thought  that  business  would  be  better, 
—  money  more  plenty,  —  the  markets  higher,  —  offi- 
ces to  be  distributed  ;  and  others  thought  they  would 
like  to  have  the  king  stay,  but  then  perhaps  they 
would  be  unpopular,  and  have  to  lose  time  or  prop- 
erty, and  so  they  were  lukewarm.  Thus  it  came  to 
pass,  not  that  he  was  driven  away  by  one  man, 
nor  by  all  his  enemies,  but  by  his  friends. 

Abi.  Thou  knowest,  Zadok,  that  I  have  been  laid 
up  at  home,  ever  since  the  king  left.  The  stone 
which  Shimei  threw  at  the  king,  and  which  hit  me 
on  my  temples,  came  very  near  taking  my  life.  And 
I  have  not  known  what  has  taken  place  since.  Pray 
tell  me,  good  Zadok,  what  has  transpired. 
,  Zad.  Scarcely  had  the  king  gone  over  Olivet, 
weeping  as  he  went,  when  we  returned  to  the  city. 


THE   KING   COMING   BACK?  135 

Thou  wast  brought  back  wounded.  Then  came  Ab- 
salom, with  all  his  followers.  They  blew  ram's- 
horns  and  trumpets,  and  they  screamed  and  yelled, 
as  if  a  shower  of  gold  had  fallen  from  heaven.  The 
prisons  were  opened,  and  all  punishments  were  abol- 
ished by  proclamation.  Then  was  the  city  given  up 
to  revelry.  The  restraints  of  law  were  all  cut  away, 
and  the  strong  plundered  the  weak,  and  he  who  had 
the  might  had  the  right.  During  the  short  stay  of 
Absalom  in  the  city,  it  was  a  scene  of  robbery,  crime, 
lust,  and  blood,  such  as  I  never  thought  possible. 
Thanks  to  Jehovah  God,  the  godless  young  man  left 
the  city  soon,  —  after  committing  crimes  that  made 
the  very  heavens  blush  to  witness.  Then  there  was 
a  calm  over  the  city,  such  as  follows  a  tornado.  Busi- 
ness ceased,  because  confidence  between  men  and 
in  men  was  lost.  There  was  no  buying  and  no  sell- 
ing. The  shops  have  been  mostly  closed.  On  the 
hill  of  Zion,  where  we  now  stand,  where  the  glad 
tribes  used  to  come  up  with  songs,  there  are  now  no 
morning  or  evening  sacrifices.  The  sons  of  Lcvi 
have  put  off  their  white  robes,  and  are  in  mourning. 
The  voice  of  the  organ,  the  harp,  and  the  cymbal  is 
hushed,  and  we  have  no  more  the  sweet  songs  of 
praise  which  were  sung  when  the  king  was  with  us. 
The  few  that  come  up  Zion's  hill  now,  come  with 
sighs.  The  hand  of  the  wicked  rent  these  curtains 
of  the  tabernacle,  as  you  see.  Their  tattered  shreds 
are  blowing  in  the  wind,  and  the  ways  of  Zion  are 
in  deep  mourning.  Last  night,  as  the  moon  rose  over 
yonder  mountain,  presenting  the  outlines  of  the  hills 


136  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

and  the  olive-trees,  I  stood  here  alone.  The  city 
was  so  wrapped  in  silence  that  I  could  hear  the  gen- 
tle murmurs  of  Siloa's  waters,  and  the  low  wailings 
of  the  daughters  of  Jerusalem,  as  they  stood  in  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  streets.  Our  hearts  are  sad, 
Abiathar,  and  unless  our  God  shall  look  upon  our 
affliction,  Zion  is  a  desolation  for  ever. 

AU.  I  hear,  this  hour,  that  the  young  man  Absa- 
lom is  dead  !  Why  don't  the  king  come  back  ?  He 
surely  need  not  stay  away,  now  that  the  traitor  is 
gone,  and  his  army  routed.  Why  don't  he  come 
back  ? 

Zad.  Alas,  Abiathar  !  I  do  not  know  that  he  will 
ever  come  back ! 

AU.     Indeed  !     Why  not,  Zadok  ? 

Zad.  Because  he  sees  no  signs  that  his  people 
want  him  to  return.  They  see  that  the  holy  city  sits 
solitary  like  a  widow,  —  they  see  that  law  and  or- 
der are  prostrate,  —  that  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn, 
because  her  solemn  feasts  ar£  neglected,  —  that  the 
harp  and  the  song  are  silent,  and  music  is  in  her 
grave,  —  they  see  the  sons  of  Levi  shorn  of  their 
glory,  and  creeping  around  with  earth  on  their  heads, 
—  and  yet  they  speak  not  a  word  of  bringing  the 
king  back  !  The  king  don't  know  that  the  rebellion 
is  over,  —  that  the  hearts  of  his  subjects  are  not  still 
alienated  from  him,  —  that  he  would  not  again  be 
driven  away,  if  he  should  return,  —  and  that  he  would 
not  again  be  forsaken  by  his  professed  friends  !  Till 
he  has  these  assurances,  he  can  never  return.  But 
what  are  we  doing  ?  The  nobles  shut  themselves  in 


THE    KING    COMING    BACK  ?  137 

their  strong  dwellings,  and  do  nothing.  The  priests 
feel  discouraged,  and  their  hands  hang  down.  The 
footsteps  of  scoffing  strangers  are  heard  in  our 
streets,  and  near  the  door  of  our  holy  sanctuary. 
Alas,  my  brother !  my  heart  is  sad,  and  I  know  not 
what  to  do  !  It  is  not  that  the  king  is  lost  to  the  city, 
that  I  mourn,  but  he  seems  to  have  gone  out  of 
the  hearts  of  his  friends.  Art  thou  sad,  too,  Abia- 
thar? 

Abi.     Very. 

Zad.  Art  thou  ready  to  do  any  thing  to  bring  the 
king  back  ? 

Abi.     Try  me,  and  see. 

Zad.  Well,  then,  know  thou  that  no  curse  comes 
unless  God  is  first  angry.  His  frowns  are  upon  us. 
We  must  seek  his  face  first  and  earnestly  in  prayer, 
that  he  would  turn  the  heart  of  the  people  to  &&• 
sire  the  king  to  return.  Go  thou,  and  call  together 
the  few  that  sigh  and  mourn,  —  the  women  that  used 
to  be  so  constant  at  the  courts  of  the  Lord,  —  call 
them  together,  and  ask  them  to  fast  and  pray,  and  I 
will  go  and  speak  to  the  nobles. 

Abi.  Why  not  call  a  fast  of  the  whole  city,  and 
ask  them  all  to  pray  ? 

Zad.  Because  they  are  not  ready  for  it.  Their 
hearts  are  not  touched.  But  thou  knowest  here  and 
there  a  mourner  who  dwells  near  the  hill  of  Zion, 
and  near  the  droppings  of  the  sanctuary.  Don't  be 
discouraged,  if  thou  findest  but  a  few  at  first.  Call 
them  together,  and  bring  out  the  little  harp  that 
hangs  in  the  corner  of  the  tabernacle,  and  let  them 
12* 


138  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

hear  once  more  the  notes  that  the  king  used  to  sing, 
—  and,  if  thou  canst,  cause  them  to  see  once  more 
the  portrait  of  the  king,  which  they  threw  out  of  the 
palace  into  the  streets.  I  know  that  it  was  fearfully 
marred  and  defaced,  but  still  it  is  the  king's  likeness, 
and  it  will  move  the  hearts  of  some,  when  seen.  We 
must  call  these  few  mourners  in  Zion  to  fasting  in 
private,  and  to  praying  in  private.  We  must  have 
the  king  back,  or  we  are  ruined.  Dost  thou  see  how 
the  thistles  begin  to  spring  up  on  the  hill  of  Zion, 
where  'the  roses  used  to  blossom  ?  Dost  thou  see 
the  gates  and  the  curtains  of  the  tabernacle  reel, 
where  once  they  stood  so  strong  ?  We  must  send 
after  the  king,  or  he  will  never  come  back  to  us. 
But  yesterday  I  saw  strangers  from  Idumea  walking 
around  our  holy  hill,  and  inquiring  when  the  morn- 
ing sacrifice  and  the  evening  incense  were  offered ; 
and  when  they  saw  that  the  fire  on  the  altar  was 
gone  out,  and  the  glory  departed  from  us,  they  shot 
out  the  lips  and  wagged  their  heads,  and  cried, "  Aha  ! 
aha  !  so  would  we  have  it ! "  Oh !  I  am  sick  at 
heart,  Abiathar.  I  have  put  off  the  robe  of  the 
priesthood,  and  may  never  put  it  on  again.  Thou 
art  younger,  and  thou  art  to  succeed  me.  But  re- 
member, my  loved  one,  whenever  these  altars  are 
cold,  and  the  saints  are  saddened,  it  is  because 
they  have  driven  away  him  whom  God  hath  placed 
king  on  Zion,  and  that  he  will  not  return  again  till 
sought  by  repentance,  and  prayers,  and  tears.  "  O 
Lord,  deliver  David  out  of  all  his  troubles." 


A  LEGEND  OF  THE  WAR. 


THE  land  on  the  north  side  of  Long  Island  Sound, 
along  the  southern  borders  of  the  good  little  State  of 
Connecticut,  is  composed  of  hard  hills  covered  with 
dwarf  cedars  and  the  spreading  juniper-bush,  and 
beautiful  valleys  which  extend  up  among  and  be- 
tween these  hills.  Particularly  is  this  the  case  be- 
tween New  Haven  and  the  Connecticut  River.  If 
the  hills  are  barren,  the  valleys  are  proportionably 
fertile.  This  is  decidedly  the  sunny  side  of  Con- 
necticut. Then  the  Sound  is  a  most  beautiful  sheet 
of  water,  whose  gentle  waves  have  made  this  whole 
shore  a  charming  sand-beach.  From  any  one  of  the 
hills  which  I  have  mentioned,  the  prospect  is  delight- 
ful. The  eye  takes  in  a  wide  expanse  of  waters, 
with  vessels  of  every  size  and  name,  gracefully  mov- 
ing in  every  direction  under  their  load  of  canvas,  and 
ever  and  anon  the  huge,  but  beautiful,  steamboat  is 
seen  crowding  her  way  past  them  all,  sending  out 
her  two  streams  of  smoke,  which  seem  to  hang  to 
her  as  if  not  to  be  shaken  off.  On  almost  any  day, 


140  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

the  bright  waters  are  now  alive  with  all  kinds  of 
craft,  while  the  distant  shores  of  Long  Island,  and 
the  many  little  islands  scattered  along  the  shores,  add 
to  the  beauty  of  the  prospect. 

But  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak,  it 
was  far  otherwise.  In  the  summer  of  1813  no  sail 
or  craft  of  any  kind  was  to  be  seen  in  the  Sound. 
The  lighthouse  kindled  its  nightly  lamp,  and  the 
gulls  on  the  low,  flat  islands  kept  up  their  night- 
watches,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  benefited. 
We  were  in  war,  and  every  wing  of  commerce  was 
clipped.  The  British  ships  of  war  so  completely 
blockaded  the  Sound,  that  nothing  could  move,  un- 
less now  and  then  a  small  boat  was  seen  to  glide 
along  the  shore,  where,  at  a  moment's  warning,  she 
could  run  into  the  mouth  of  some  hidden  creek,  or 
skulk  behind  some  small  island.  It  was  a  rare  thing 
to  see  a  sail. 

On  a  bright  September  morning,  on  the  top  of  one 
of  those  hills  which  overlooked  the  Sound,  and  which 
ran  down  till  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  water, 
stood  a  young  man  alone.  He  was  dressed  partly 
as  a  sailor  and  partly  as  a  landsman,  so  that  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  decide  to  which  class  he  be- 
longed. He  was  small  of  stature,  firmly  made,  with 
an  eye  that  flashed,  and  a  mouth  that  shut  as  none 
but  a  determined  man  can  shut  his  mouth.  His  face 
was  not  intellectual,  but  expressive  of  good  humor, 
self-reliance,  and  perfect  fearlessness.  He  was  stand- 
ing under  a  cedar,  intently  looking  off"  upon  the 
Sound  ,x  and  gazing  upon  a  British  frigate  of  the  first 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    WAR.  141 

class  which  lay  anchored  off  about  eight  miles  from 
the  shore,  and  about  midway  between  the  two  shores 
on  the  north  and  on  the  south.  She  lay  so  still  and 
motionless,  except  as  the  tide  veered  her  round  once 
in  six  hours,  that  she  could  be  compared  to  nothing 
except  a  huge  black  spider  that  lay  coiled  up  in  a 
corner  of  his  den,  ready  to  pounce  upon  any  unso- 
phisticated fly  that  happened  to  come  near.  If  a 
sloop  or  raking  schooner,  trusting  to  her  quick  heels, 
or  to  the  darkness  of  night,  attempted  to  run  past 
her,  out  flew  her  boats,  each  containing  one  heavy 
brass  gun,  and  she  was  a  prisoner  at  once.  While 
the  young  man  was  watching  her,  all  at  once  her 
sails  were  thrown  off  her  yards,  and,  in  a  time  in- 
credibly short  to  a  landsman,  her  canvas  was  all 
spread,  and  the  black  creature  now  loomed  up, 
white,  lofty,  symmetrical,  and  veiy  beautiful.  A 
slight  breeze  filled  out  her  sails,  and  graceful  and 
majestical  was  her  movement.  "  There  she  goes, 
bent  on  mischief  as  ever.  She  is  now  for  Saybrook, 
or  else  for  Deacon  Mayo's  farm !  The  villains ! 
They  are  always  on  some  mischief,  and  they  never 
lie  easy  on  the  hammock  unless  they  have  done 
some  rogueiy.  I  '11  keep  my  eye  on  you,  old  darky, 
and  it  will  cost  one  halter  for  my  neck,  or  else  I  '11 
save  Joe  !  If  you  roost  anywhere  this  side  of  Say- 
brook,  I  '11  see  you  again  to-night.  That  I  will,  you 
wicked  old  jade  !  " 

He  stood  and  watched  her  closely.  She  went 
about  five  miles,  and  again  the  sails  were  furled,  the 
anchors  dropped,  and  she  lay  the  same  dark  thing 


142  .  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

upon  the  waters ;  the  young  man  then  descended  the 
hill,  and  was  lost  among  the  cedars. 

A  little  past  midnight,  following  the  morning  we 
have  described,  the  frigate  lay  in  the  same  place. 
No  light  was  allowed  on  board  of  her,  the  officer  of 
the  watch  paced  the  deck  with  a  measured  tread, 
and  no  noise  was  heard  save  the  drawing  the  chain 
from  bow  to  stern  every  five  minutes,  lest  some  Yan- 
kee should  be  fastening  his  torpedo  or  some  blow-up 
machine  upon  her  keel  or  sides.  The  watch-boats 
lay  off  and  around  the  ship,  perhaps  a  mile  or  two 
distant,  watching  to  hear  or  see  any  thing  that  might 
stir.  Presently  the  oars  of  a  boat  were  heard,  muf- 
fled indeed,  but  still  plainly  heard  approaching.  The 
nearest  boat  sent  up  a  small  rocket,  a  signal  to  the 
other  boats.  In  an  instant  they  were  in  motion,  and, 
by  the  time  the  stranger  had  come  near,  there  were 
four  of  these  guard-boats  ready  to  fall  upon  her. 
When  near  enough,  she  was  hailed  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  and  answered,  "  Harvey." 

"All  right." 

"  What  have  you  got  ?  " 

"  A  load  of  nice  apples." 

"  Pass  on." 

One  of  the  guard-boats  attended  "  Harvey  "  up  to 
the  ship's  side,  and  reported  to  the  officer  of  the  deck. 
"  Come  aboard,"  was  the  next  command,  and  a 
young  man  ran  up  the  ladder  and  stood  on  deck. 
He  first  gave  the  officer  a  handful  of  apples,  and  he 
was  then  allowed  to  bring  what  he  had  on  board,  and, 
after  paying  a  heavy  toll  to  the  officers,  was  allowed 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    WAR.  143 

to  sell  the  rest  to  the  crew.  He  mingled  with  the 
men  and  listened  to  the  tones  of  every  voice,  but  was 
evidently  disappointed.  He  listened  for  a  voice 
which  was  not  there.  He  was  lingering  and  haggling 
to  spin  out  his  time  as  far  as  possible,  when  the  offi- 
cer called  him. 

"  Harvey,  should  n't  you  be  off  ?  " 

"  I  han't  sold  all  ?  "  said  Harvey,  in  the  true  Yan- 
kee trade-with-me  tone. 

"  Well,  the  next  watch  will  be  called  shortly.  But 
what  did  you  say  about  Deacon  Mayo's  farm,  —  did 
you  say  there, are  many  cattle  there  ?  " 

"  It  's  a  great  farm,  your  honor,  and  the  Deacon 
usually  keeps  a  great  many  cattle  there.  Indeed,  I 
saw  many  there  this  very  day."  (The  eye  of  the 
young  man  laughed ;  but  it  was  dark,  and  his  eye 
could  not  be  seen.  He  had  omitted  to  add,  that  he 
had  that  very  day  walked  several  miles  to  warn  the 
Deacon  that  the  ship  of  war  was  near  his  farm,  and 
he  had  better  look  out  for  his  cattle,  and  that  in  con- 
sequence every  hoof  had  been  driven  away  that 
evening !) 

"  Good.  We  want  some  fresh  meat.  For  though 
our  good  ship  is  called  '  The  Weasel,'  not  a  mouse 
can  she  catch  passing  this  way.  We  '11  try  the  Dea- 
con's beef." 

By  this  time  the  bell  rung,  and  a  new  watch  was 
called.  Harvey,  as  he  was  called,  mingled  with  the 
new-comers,  joked,  talked  Yankee,  sold  apples,  and 
was  very  busy.  At  length  he  edged  his  way  up  to  a 
tall,  noble  fellow,  who  went  by  the  name  of  Joe 
Strange. 


144  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

"  Don't  you  love  apples,  Joe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  've  not  a  shot  in  my  locker.  I  've 
nothing  to  buy  with,  and  you  land-lubbers  don't  give 
away  things." 

"  Yes  we  do,  sometimes.  See  now  if  we  don't. 
Here  's  a  Hoyt  sweeting."  Joe  started.  "  And 
here  's  a  Loomis  sweeting,  and  here  's  a  Jack- 
apple  !  "  In  a  low  voice  he  added,  "  It  grew  in  the 
lane,  and  was  picked  by  my  sister  Lucy."  Joe 
Strange  said  nothing,  but  as  he  took  the  apples  Har- 
vey felt  him  shake. 

"  A  Jack-apple,  a  Jack-apple  !  "  cried  several 
voices.  "  What  's  that  ?  let  us  try  it." 

"  Here,  here,"  said  Harvey,  handing  any  apple 
he  could  find  in  his  measure.  He  felt  well  assured 
that  Joe  Strange  would  take  good  care  of  his.  In  a 
few  moments  more,  Harvey  was  in  his  empty  boat 
carefully  rowing  for  the  shore ;  and  by  daylight  he 
was  up  in  a  little  creek,  called  Eel  Creek,  where  his 
boat  was  moored,  and  he  went  up  among  the  bushes 
to  lie  down  and  rest.  When  he  awoke  from  a  short, 
but  sound  sleep,  the  sun  was  already  risen.  He 
looked  off  towards  the  ship,  and  there  she  lay  mo- 
tionless and  dark.  "  It  seems  like  a  dream,"  said  he 
to  himself,  "  that  I  have  actually  been  off  to  that 
ship  three  times  alone,  —  that  I  have  actually  found 
my  old  friend  and  neighbor,  Joseph  Collins,  on  board, 
shut  up  as  a  common  sailor !  What  would  his  old 
father  and  mother  say,  what  would  our  Lucy  say, 
if  they  only  knew  it!  Poor  fellow!  I  knew  him, 
though  he  did  not  me,  the  first  time  I  went  aboard. 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE   WAR.  145 

But  that  apple  !  it  will  deliver  or  destroy  him  !  and 
my  own  neck  !  were  I  to  be  caught  here  trading  with 
the  enemy's  ship,  I  should  be  hung  !  No  plea  that  I 
do  it  to  rescue  a,  friend  would  avail,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  could  not  prove  my  motives  to  be  such. 
And  if  on  the  ship  they  should  discover  me  tam- 
pering and  trying  to  entice  away  one  of  their  men, 
they  would  hang  me  up  at  the  yard-arm !  But 
I  'm  in  for  it,  and  I  must  and  will  rescue  Joseph, 
if  in  my  power.  But  I  have  a  hard  day's  work  be- 
fore me." 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  before  Joe  Strange,  as 
he  was  called,  could  steal  a  moment  to  be  alone,  and 
it  was  then  only  as  the  officer  of  the  deck  bid  him  go 
aloft  and  secure  a  rope  which  seemed  to  have  parted. 
Aloft  he  went,  and,  having  performed  the  duty,  stop- 
ped a  moment  and  took  out  an  apple  from  his  pock- 
et. It  was  a  fair-looking  apple,  but  as  he  examined 
it  he  saw  that  it  must  have  been  cut  in  two  and  nice- 
ly fastened  together  again,  with  a  very  fine  thread. 
On  opening  it,  he  found  a  small  roll  of  paper,  on 
which  was  written  :  "  You  are  not  forgotten.  If 
you  wish  to  see  the  tree  on  which  I  grew,  the  next 
time  you  go  ashore,  day  or  night,  contrive  to  lose 
your  hat  just  before  you  land."  Twice  he  read  the 
words,  then  put  the  paper  into  his  mouth,  to  be  spit 
out  by  piecemeal  as  he  had  opportunity.  Taking  a 
large  nail  from  his  pocket,  he  thrust  it  through  the 
two  sides  of  the  apple,  and  threw  it  overboard.  Its 
fall  attracted  the  notice  of  the  sentinel,  but  before  he 
could  think  what  it  might  be,  it  was  out  of  sight. 
13 


146  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

Joe  came  down  to  the  deck  with  a  buoyancy  of 
step  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

Harvey  Loomis  was  the  son  of  a  small,  but  very 
intelligent  farmer,  who  lived  about  four  miles  from 
the  sea-shore.  Old  Mr.  Collins,  a  most  guileless 
character,  lived  not  far  from  him,  and  for  nearly  half 
a  century  the  two  families  had  been  friends  in  close 
intimacy.  Their  children  had  been  brought  up  to- 
gether, and  the  ties  of  blood  could  hardly  have  made 
them  dearer  to  each  other.  Joseph  Collins,  the 
younger  son,  had  been  gone  for  four  years,  during 
which  time  no  tidings  had  been  heard  from  him,  ex- 
cept a  vague  report  that  he  had  been  impressed  into 
the  British  navy,  and  lately  another  report  that  he 
was  actually  in  some  one  of  the  ships  which  were 
hovering  along  our  coast.  This  lasj;  report  had  taken 
such  hold  upon  Harvey  Loomis,  that  he  had  deter- 
mined to  visit  every  ship  in  his  power,  under  the 
pretence  of  selling  them  something.  We  have  seen 
that  he  was  successful  in  his  search. 

About  ten  o'clock  that  morning,  Harvey  reached 
home,  fatigued,  yet  greatly  excited.  "  Now,  Lucy, 
for  some  breakfast !  I  'm  tired  and  hungry  :  and  be 
quick,  girl,  for  I  must  be  off  again." 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  doing,  Harvey  ! 
This  is  something  new  for  you !  You  were  never 
out  night  after  night  before  !  Mother  is  distressed 
about  it,  and  so  am  I.  Do  tell  us  what  it  means  ?  " 

"  All  hi  due  time,  sis.  You  must  know  I  am 
hunting  raccoons,  and  you  know  they  are  to  be 
caught  only  in  the  night." 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    WAR.  147 

"And  did  you  want  me  to  fix  that  apple  so  nice 
for  bait  ?  " 

"  No,  I  gave  it  to  your  sweetheart !  " 

Poor  Lucy  blushed,  then  sighed,  and  with  a  pale 
face  went  about  getting  Harvey's  breakfast.  When 
it  was  ready,  he  said,  "  I  'm  in  a  great  hurry,  Lucy, 
and  I  wish  you  would  get  me  the  great  cow-bell,  and 
the  powder-horn." 

"  Are  you  crazy,  Harvey  ?  the  cow-bell !  What 
can  you  want  of  it  ?  " 

"  To  shake,  and  keep  myself  from  seeing  ghosts  in 
the  dark  !  " 

Harvey  was  soon  equipped,  and,  putting  the  re- 
mains of  his  breakfast  into  his  pocket,  he  once  more 
left  his  father's  house,  without  speaking  to  any  one 
else. 

Deacon  Mayo's  farm  was  at  the  extremity  of  a 
point  of  land  which  projected  out  into  the  Sound. 
On  three  sides  it  was  bounded  by  water.  It  was  a 
large  dairy  farm,  well  stocked,  and  easily  enriched 
by  the  kelp  or  sea-weed  which  the  winds  and  the 
waves  brought  up  to  the  beach  very  frequently.  At 
its  extreme  projection  was  a  large  barn  and  a  com- 
fortable dwelling-house.  The  house  was  lately  aban- 
doned by  the  inhabitants  for  fear  of  the  enemy,  and 
the  cattle  were  driven  away  the  day  before,  by  the 
advice  of  Harvey.  This  farm  was  full  eight  miles 
from  Harvey's  home.  Towards  this  farm  he  now 
bent  his  steps.  It  was  several  miles  from  any  other 
house.  When  he  had  come  within  two  or  three 
miles  of  the  farm  he  met  Abel,  an  honest  black  man, 


148  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

well  known  and  highly  esteemed.  He  was  driving 
a  long  team  of  oxen. 

"  Well,  Abel,  a  fine  team  that  To  whom  does  it 
belong  ?  " 

"  To  the  Doctor." 

"  To  the  Doctor,  eh  ?  Well,  I  have  a  notion  in 
my  head.  I  want  to  hire  you  and  that  team  till  the 
sun  is  about  an  hour  high.  What  will  you  go  for  ?  " 

"  What  to  do  ?  " 

"  No  matter.  Nothing  very  hard.  It 's  a  secret 
though,  and  it  must  be  a  part  of  the  bargain  that  you 
never  tell  what  you  did  for  me.  Here  are  two  silver 
dollars,  and  they  are  yours  if  you  go." 

The  negro  turned  his  team  about,  and  went  with 
Harvey.  When  they  had  reached  the  Deacon's 
farm,  Harvey  made  him  unyoke  the  team  and  let 
the  oxen  feed  in  plain  sight  of  the  ship.  After  wan- 
dering about  for  an  hour  or  two,  they  were  then 
again  yoked,  and  Abel,  grinning  over  his  two  dol- 
lars, was  on  his  way  home,  to  the  Doctor's.  He 
wondered  if  Harvey  Lqomis  was  crazy  !  "  Two 
dollars  paid  to  see  some  cattle  eat !  He  go  in  the 
house  and  look  out  of  the  window  to  see  me  drive 
the  cattle  about !  He  !  he  !  he  !  " 

After  Abel  was  gone,  and  Harvey  was  once  more 
alone,  he  said,  speaking  and  thinking  aloud,  "  I 
think  the  trap  is  well  baited  -now,  and  I  think  they 
will  come  ;  but  will  Joseph  come  ?  And  if  so,  how 
shall  I  know  him  in  the  dark,  and  how  shall  I  sep- 
arate him  from  the  rest  ?  I  can  hardly  see." 

After  sunset  there  was  a  movement  on  board  of 


A   LEGEND    OF   THE    WAE.  149 

the  ship,  the  lieutenants  conversed  together,  and  the 
midshipmen  swelled  and  walked  straighter  than  com- 
mon, though  they  knew  not  why. 

"  Send  Joe  Strange  aft,"  said  the  officer  of  the 
deck  ;  and  he  soon  appeared. 

"  Strange,  do  you  think  our  boats  can  land  near 
yonder  point  ? " 

"  Your  honor  knows  best,  but  I  should  think  they 
might." 

"  Where  would  you  land,  if  you  had  the  responsi- 
bility ?  " 

"  A  little  west  of  the  Black  Boys,  which  you  see 
in  the  range  of  that  hill." 

"  I  see  them  ;  but  pray,  sir,  how  did  you  know  the 
name  of  those  five  rocks  ?  " 

Joe  muttered  something  about  having  heard  Har- 
vey, the  apple-seller,  call  them  by  that  name. 

"  Why,  Joe,  you  seem  to  know  every  rock,  and 
island,  and  creek,  on  this  coast.  How  came  you  to 
be  so  great  a  judge  in  these  matters  ?  " 

"  Common  sense,  sir,  and  having  spent  my  boy- 
hood on  a  coast  something  like  this." 

"  Very  like,  —  I  have  suspected  as  much  "  ;  and 
keenly  did  he  fix  his  eye  on  Joe's  face ;  but  Joe 
stood  the  shot  unmoved.  Again  bending  a  sharp 
look  on  him,  he  said,  "  Joe,  after  dark  we  are  ordered 
to  land  and  bring  in  those  cattle,  —  would  you  like 
to  go  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  do  as  the  boat  to  which  I  belong 
does,  sir." 

"  You  may  go  forward,  sir." 
13* 


150  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

The  officer  mused  a  moment,  and  walked  to  the 
first  lieutenant  and  said,  "  In  the  larboard  boat,  No. 
3,  is  Joe  Strange,  —  will  it  be  best  to  allow  him  to 
go,  sir  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because,  sir,  he  has  always  claimed  to  be  an 
American,  and  has  shown  so  much  knowledge  of  this 
coast,  naming  the  very  rocks  on  it,  that  I  begin  to 
think  he  's  more  than  half  right ;  and  if  so,  he  '11 
give  us  the  slip  the  first  moment  that  he  can." 

"  True,  but  I  don't  see  that  he  can  escape  to- 
night. A  boat  of  marines  will  go  with  you,  with 
orders  to  shoot  any  man  that  offers  to  stir.  Let  him 
go." 

The  officer  bowed,  shook  his  head,  and  retired. 
In  a  few  moments  the  drums  beat  the  marines  to 
quarters,  and  the  bugles  at  the  several  port-holes 
sounded  the  notes  that  called  each  boat's  company. 
The  heart  of  Joe  Strange  beat  quick  and  hard,  as  he 
listened  to  see  if  his  boat  would  be  called.  Presently 
its  well-known  notes  were  sounded,  and  he  leaped 
towards  it ;  but  a  second  thought  checked  him,  and 
he  put  on  an  air  as  indifferent  as  possible.  The 
boats  were  let  down  and  manned,  and  empty  boats 
were  in  tow  to  bring  off  the  cattle.  With  muffled 
oars  they  now  moved  towards  the  shore,  going  west 
of  the  Black  Boys,  as  Joe  had  advised.  After  land- 
ing as  noiselessly  as  possible,  the  boats  lay  off  a  few 
rods  from  the  shore,  with  "a  middy"  and  a  few 
men  in  each.  The  water  was  still,  but  the  night  was 
profoundly  dark.  They  had  about  a  mile  to  go  be- 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    WAR.  .          151 

fore  they  reached  the  house  of  the  farm.  Over  a 
salt  marsh,  and  over  little  creeks,  and  over  bars  of 
sand,  and  through  the  stiff  sedge-grass,  they  went 
till  they  reached  the  house.  There  were  no  signs  of 
men,  and  the  cattle  were  not  in  the  barn-yard  as  they 
expected.  It  was  now  necessary  to  light  their  lan- 
terns and  search.  On  lighting  the  lantern  the  officer 
said,  "  Joe  Strange,  where  's  your  hat,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  was  knocked  off  in  the  dark  as  we  landed,  sir, 
and  I  could  not  find  it." 

After  searching  all  about  the  premises,  and  finding 
no  cattle,  the  officers  began  to  storm  and  the  men  to 
swear  in  muttered  tones.  Just  then,  in  a  small  grove 
a  little  distance  off,  a  cow-bell  was  heard  to  tinkle, 
and  a  creature  to  low,  though,  to  a  practised  ear,  the 
lowing  was  not  exactly  herd-like. 

"  There  they  are  now  !  "  said  one  of  the  officers. 

"  There  they  are  not,  sir,"  said  another  ;  "  I  have 
just  been  through  that  grove  myself,  and  there  are 
no  cattle  there." 

Again  the  cow-bell  was  heard  to  tinkle. 

"  Joe  Strange,  your  legs  are  long,  just  run  there 
and  stir  up  that  creature.  I  suppose  it  's  something 
that  wears  horns,  even  if  it  be  the  Devil." 

Joe  waited  no .  second  bidding,  but,  with  a  lantern 
in  his  hand,  made  for  the  grove.  Scarcely  had  he 
entered  it  before  the  flash  and  the  roar  of  a  gun  was 
heard,  and  his  light  was  extinguished. 

"  Forward  there,  marines !  "  cried  the  commander 
of  the  expedition.  But  the  marines  were  some  way 
off,  and  they  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  enter  the  bushes. 


152  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

At  length,  however,  they  entered,  expecting  every 
moment  to  be  fired  upon,  or  at  least  to  stumble  over 
the  dead  body  of  Joe  Strange  ;  but  they  met  with 
nothing  except  finding  Joe's  lantern,  and  near  by  it 
a  huge  cow-bell.  Whether  Joe  was  killed  or  carried 
off  bodily  they  could  not  tell,  but  concluded  there 
must  be  some  Yankee  trick  about  it.  In  moody  si- 
lence they  turned  and  set  the  house  and  barn  on 
fire,  and  then  returned  to  their  boats  and  to  the  ship 
to  report:  "No  cattle  found,  and  one  man  lost." 
Whether  to  report  Joe  as  killed,  or  made  a  prisoner, 
or  a  deserter,  the  officer  was  at  a  loss. 

Far  up  the  heavens  rolled  the  flames  of  that  house 
and  barn ;  and  the  few  waking  eyes  in  the  region 
knew  how  it  must  be,  but  there  was  none  to  help. 
Slowly  up  into  the  back  country  were  walking,  as 
day  began  to  dawn,  Harvey  Loomis  and  Joseph  Col- 
lins. They  had  stopped  to  embrace,  to  weep,  and 
to  laugh,  more  than  once. 

"  'T  was  nobly  done,  Harvey  ;  but  when  you  first 
tinkled  the  bell,  what  did  you  expect  ?  " 

"  I  was  hi  hopes  you  would  recollect  the  old  bell 
at  once,  and  smell  it  out,  and  at  a  single  bound  come 
to  me." 

"  Well,  I  did  not,  —  I  was  sent.  But  when  I  got 
there,  why  did  you  fire  your  gun  in  my  face,  and 
knock  my  lantern  out  of  my  hand  ?  " 

"  I  put  out  your  light  to  make  it  dark,  you  ninny  ! 
and  I  fired  the  gun,  so  that,  if  you  had  been  retaken, 
they  might  suppose  you  were  taken  as  a  prisoner, 
and  not  hang  you  as  a  deserter." 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE   WAR.  153 

"  You  cunning  fellow  !  What  if  they  had  taken 
you  ?  " 

"  Hanging  on  the  yard-arm  of  course  ;  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  for  that." 

"  Noble  fellow  !  May  God  reward  you,  I  never 
can.  Well,  now  you  go  home,  Harvey,  and  tell 
Lucy,  —  and  watch  Tier  closely,  —  if  she  's  got  her 
heart  on  any  other  point  of  the  compass,  be  faithful 
and  let  me  know  it.  I  will  go  and  show  myself  to 
father  and  mother,  and  if  I  don't  hear  from  you,  I 
shall  be  at  your  house  by  ten  o'clock.  Mind  now 
about  Lucy  ! " 

"  Get  out,  you  jealous  fellow  !  it 's  more  than  half 
because  I  love  Lucy  that  I  have  had  my  neck  smell 
of  hemp  for  the  last  six  months  !  " 

That  morning  after  breakfast,  as  usual,  old  Mr. 
Collins  had  read  in  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  little 
Molly,  an  orphan  child  of  color,  the  word  of  God,  and 
then  they  knelt  in  prayer.  Just  as  he  was  about  to 
kneel,  the  old  parrot  cried  out,  "  Joseph  !  O  Joseph  ! 
and  Lucy  Loomis  too  !  "  The  words  meant  nothing 
in  the  mouth  of  the  bird,  but  they  led  the  train  of  his 
thoughts  in  that  channel.  After  praying  for  things 
which  filled  the  heart,  he  added,  "  And  now,  O  Lord  ! 
remember,  we  beseech  thee,  our  poor  wanderer,  if 
he  be  still  in  the  land  of  the  living ;  whether  on  the 
land  or  on  the  deep,  in  the  hospital  or  in  the  prison, 
O,  remember  him.  We  would  pray,  in  all  submis- 
sion, that  we  may  see  his  face  once  more,  and  lean 
upon  him  as  the  staff  of  our  age ;  but  if  this  may 
never  be,  our  prayer  is,  that  we  may  meet  him  in 


154  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

heaven,  to  part  with  him  no  more  ! "  While  the 
good  old  man  was  thus  praying  with  many  tears,  the 
door  softly  opened,  and  the  young  man  stood  within 
it.  When  the  family  arose  from  their  knees,  there 
stood  their  son,  bathed  in  tears !  The  old  man  lifted 
up  his  hands  in  utter  amazement,  but  the  mother 
sobbed,  "  My  son  !  my  son  ! "  and  fell  upon  his 
neck. 

A  few  hours  after  this  there  was  a  group  gathered 
at  Mr.  John  Loomis's ;  who  came  with  a  kind  of 
trembling,  as  men  might  be  supposed  to  feel,  who 
were  conscious  of  being  in  a  dream,  and  were  afraid 
of  being  awaked.  There  were  old  Mr.  Collins  and 
wife,  who  contrived  to  keep  near  their  son,  as  if 
afraid  he  might  escape,  or  change  into  something 
besides  himself.  Then  there  were  old  Mr.  Loomis 
and  wife,  who  felt  a  quiet  joy  in  sympathizing  with 
those  whose  emotions  were  deep.  Harvey  said  he 
believed  he  felt  as  foolish  as  did  Touser,  when  in  his 
puppyhood  he  chased  something,  and  it  turned  out 
to  be  a  real  'coon  !  As  for  Miss  Lucy,  she  tried 
hard  to  appear  sedate  and  quiet,  but  the  color  would 
come  and  go,  and  she  felt  nervous  and  restless,  and 
had  no  command  of  herself  till  she  had  gone  out  and 
had  a  good,  joyful  time  of  weeping.  Harvey  was 
the  first  hero,  and  he  had  to  relate  how  he  had 
heard  a  rumor  that  Joseph  was  in  some  ship  on  our 
coast,  and  that  fee  had  visited  every  ship  that  had 
come  into  the  Sound,  under  pretence  of  selling 
something. 

"  It  has  all  turned  out  right,"  said  he,  "  except  the 


A  LEGEND   OF   THE   WAR.  155 

burning  of  Deacon  Mayo's  house  and  barn.  I  feel 
grieved  to  think  I  was  probably  the  cause  of  that, 
by  showing  the  cattle  and  enticing  them  ashore." 

"  You  take  to  yourself  too  much  credit,"  said 
Joseph,  "  for  the  orders  were  given  to  land  and 
search  for  cattle  and  fire  the  buildings  before  you 
showed  the  cattle  ;  that  I  can  testify." 

"  Very  good,  —  for  though  some  of  us  wanted  you 
back,  I  don't  know  as  any  one  would  have  subscribed 
a  whole  barn,"  looking  archly  at  Lucy. 

"  I  think  you  have  just  made  it  out  that  one  life 
was  hazarded,"  replied  Lucy. 

"  Nonsense,  —  mere  love  of  excitement,  —  that 's 
all !  But  come  now,  Mr.  Joe  Strange,  or  whatever 
your  name  is  abroad,  let  us  now  have  your  story. 
What  have  you  been  at  these  four  long  years  ?  All 
of  us,  except  Lucy,  are  dying  with  impatience  to 
know  how  you  came  to  be  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  of 
war,  that  was  fighting  against  your  country." 

"  Some  people  can  throw  apples  to  monkeys, 
though  they  would  not  themselves  do  -the  mischief 
which  the  monkeys  do.  But  to  my  story. 

"  Four  years  ago,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  you  know, 
I  owned  and  commanded  the  pretty  little  schooner, 
*  Good-speed.'  Owing  to  our  ports  being  closed  by 
the  embargo,  called  '  Jefferson's  gag,'  I  went  to  the 
West  Indies,  and  became  a  carrier  from  one  island 
to  another.  I  had  been  gone  a  year  and  a  half  and 
had  done  very  well,  when  I  remitted  my  earnings  to 
my  father  —  " 

"  They  are  all  laid  up  safe  for  you,"  said  the  old 
man. 


156  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  I  was  making  a  voyage  from  Trinidad  to  Porto 
Rico.  I  had  but  a  mate,  an  American,  one  English 
sailor,  and  a  Spaniard,  for  my  crew.  The  mate  and 
the  Spaniard  constituted  one  watch,  and  the  English- 
man and  myself  the  other.  On  the  third  night,  as  I 
stood  at  the  helm,  I  heard  a  noise  in  the  cabin,  and 
told  Bailey  to  step  down  and  see  if  some  of  the  bar- 
rels* we  re  rolling.  Before  he  could  execute  my 
order,  I  saw  the  Spaniard  come  up  from  the  cabin 
with  a  hurried  step.  By  the  moonlight,  I  saw  a  large 
Spanish  knife  in  his  hand.  As  he  made  towards  me, 
I  met  him,  parried  his  thrust,  and  knocked  him  down. 
We  then  wrested  the  knife  from  his  hand,  and  threw 
it  overboard.  Leaping  upon  his  feet,  he  bounded 
down  into  the  hold.  We  put  on  the  hatches,  and 
felt  that  he  was  safe.  Immediately,  I  procured  a 
light  and  went  into  the  cabin,  and  there  was  poor 
Hand,  my  mate,  sitting  up  in  his  berth,  with  his  skull 
broken,  and  a  part  of  his  brains  protruding.  As  1 
was  trying  to  bind  it  up,  he  said,  "  Don't  bind  up 
my  eyes,  I  can't  see  him  when  he  comes  again." 
They  were  the  last  words  he  ever  spoke,  though  he 
lived  three  days.  There  were  now  only  two  of  us 
to  sail  the  schooner,  and  I  was  every  day  expecting 
a  storm.  On  the  second  night  after  this,  I  thought 
the  Good-speed  sailed  badly.  On  trying  the  pump  I 
found  there  was  water  in  the  hold.  I  opened  the 
hatches  and  leaped  down  to  see  if  she  leaked,  and 
found  four  feet  of  water  in  my  vessel !  The  axe 
also  was  missing,  and  I  now  knew  that  the  Spaniard 
had  scuttled  the  vessel,  intending  to  sink  her.  I  got 


A   LEGEND    OF    THE    WAR.  157 

out,  and  taking  a  light  and  a  loaded  gun,  once  more 
went  down  and  called  for  my  Spanish  friend,  saying 
I  would  shoot  him  dead  if  he  made  the  least  resistance. 
He  had  crept  away  forward,  and  was  high  and  dry, 
but  gave  himself  up  on  my  presenting  the  gun.  We 
took  him  on  deck  and  bound  him,  after  receiving  his 
confession  that  he  intended  to  kill  us  all  and  take 
the  schooner  as  his  own,  and  failing  in  that  he  in- 
tended to  sink  with  us,  and  that  he  had  so  scuttled 
the  vessel  that  she  could  not  live  many  hours  longer. 
The  schooner  soon  became  unmanageable,  but  in 
four  days  after  our  troubles  she  was  driven  upon  an 
island.  The  mate  had  died  the  day  before,  but  his 
corpse  lay  in  the  cabin.  The  people,  magistrates, 
&c.,  of  the  coast  came  down  and  boarded  us.  They 
spoke  the  Spanish  and  I  only  the  English  language. 
The  Spanish  rascal  told  his  story,  and  I  tried  to  tell 
mine.  The  result  was,  that,  after  being  allowed  to 
bury  my  poor  mate,  without  coffin  or  shroud,  we 
were  all  taken  to  prison.  On  entering  the  prison, 
our  account  was  taken  down  word  for  word  by  the 
magistrate.  At  the  end  of  seven  and  a  half  months, 
our  story  was  again  written  down  aijfl  compared  with 
the  first,  and  with  each  other's.  Then  we  had  our 
trial.  Without  funds  or  friends,  I  got  the  interpret- 
er's good  graces,  so  that  he  aided  us  greatly.  We 
were  acquitted  finally,  and  the  Spaniard  left  in  irons 
in  prison.  Feeble  and  worn  down  with  excitement 
and  imprisonment,  I  knew  not  what  to  do.  At  length 
a  vessel  touched  there  ;  I  agreed  to  work  my  passage 
home  before  the  mast.  While  on  the  voyage,  we 
14 


158  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

were  overhauled  by  a  British  man-of-war,  and,  my 
name  not  being  on  her  protection  papers,  I  was 
claimed  as  a  British  seaman,  and  taken  on  board  the 
ship." 

"  Did  they  flog  you  as  a  deserter  ?  "  asked  Har- 
vey, with  his  fists  clenched. 

"  No,  they  only  claimed  me  as  a  British  sailor, 
and  did  not  pretend  that  I  had  ever  belonged  to  a 
man-of-war.  I  claimed  to  be  an  American,  but  this 
did  not  avail.  Two  thirds  of  the  men  would  swear 
they  were  Americans,  if  they  could  get  released  by 
it.  There  I  was  when  the  war  broke  out,  and  there 
I  remained,  committing  myself  to  God,  and  feeling 
sure  that  I  should  escape  ere  long.  But  when  we 
came  into  the  Sound,  and  I  saw  the  blue  hills  of  Con- 
necticut, my  heart  leaped,  and  I  came  near  betraying 
myself.  God  be  praised,  that,  owing  to  Harvey's 
cool  courage  and  persevering  efforts,  I  am  here  to 
see  you  all  alive,  and  to  praise  God  for  his  good- 
ness." 

"  And  you  '11  never  go  to  sea  again  ?  "  said  Lucy, 
in  tears. 

"  Not  if  you  will  do  all  you  can  to  keep  me  at 
home." 

Lucy  blushed,  but  uttered  no  rebuke  ! 


TOMO,  AND  THE  ¥ILD  LAKES. 


ALL  the  upper  part  of  New  York  is  a  vast  wilder- 
ness. What  in  other  countries  would  be  called  great 
rivers  take  their  rise  here.  On  the  north  are  the 
Raquette,  the  Black,  Beaver,  Grass,  Oswegatchie,  and 
the  like,  which  roll  their  waters  through  the  forests, 
till  they  find  the  St.  Lawrence.  Into  the  beautiful 
Champlain  empty  the  Saranac,  the  Du  Sauhle,  and 
the  Bouquet,  while  from  the  south  comes  the  lordly 
Hudson,  —  whose  birthplace  is  among  wilds  and 
lakes  almost  inaccessible.  In  this  mighty  wilderness 
are  mountains  terribly  magnificent,  —  rising  up  alone, 
cold,  dreary,  and  sublime.  Here,  too,  are  lakes,  — 
more  than  two  hundred  in  number,  —  wild  as  they 
were  before  the  white  man  ever  came  to  their  shores, 
and  beautiful,  often  beyond  any  thing  to  be  described 
on  paper.  Lakes  George  and  Champlain  are  of  the 
tribe,  and  have  the  good  fortune  to  be  more  ac- 
cessible than  the  rest  of  their  family ;  but  there  are 
multitudes  which  are  noways  inferior  to  them  in 
beauty,  and  far  superior  to  them  in  wildness. 


160  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

In  former  times  this  was  all  the  rich  hunting-ground 
of  the  Mohawks ;  and  for  a  long  period  they  trapped 
the  beaver  and  the  otter,  and  feasted  upon  the  moose 
and  the  deer,  unmolested.  But  in  process  of  time 
a  shrewd  old  sachem  of  the  Abenaquis  Indians,  in 
Canada,  discovered  this  choice  hunting  region.  At 
first  he  came  alone ;  but  the  abundance  of  his  suc- 
cess caused  his  young  men  to  watch  and  follow  him, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  lead  them  into  it.  To  this 
day,  there  are  marks  left  by  which  he  endeavored  to 
frighten  any  from  following  him.  Those  who  have 
gone  over  the  old  "  Indian  carrying-place,"  between 
the  waters  of  the  Saranac  and  the  Raquette,  will 
know  what  I  mean.  The  old  sachem  contended  that 
all  the  ground  occupied  by  the  lakes  and  rivers  that 
emptied  into  Canada  must  belong  to  the  Canada  In- 
dians, while  the  Mohawks  contended  that  the  ground 
was  all  theirs  from  immemorial  possession.  These 
disputes  caused  bitter  enmities,  severe  contests,  and 
much  bloodshed.  On  the  banks  of  the  rivers,  and 
around  all  the  lakes,  is  many  an  unknown  grave, 
—  where  they  waylaid  and  murdered  each  other. 
Even  to  this  day,  you  can  see  the  eye  kindle,  and 
-*4  the  form  enlarge,  as  the  Abenaquis  tells  the  story 
-4n  these  wars,  and  lauds  the  superior  courage  of  his 
tribe ;  and  I  presume,  though  I  am  unacquainted 
with  them,  that  almost  any  of  the  remnants  of  the 
Mohawks  would  do  the  same.  The  story  I  am  about 
to  relate  was  told  me  by  one  of  the  former  tribe. 

The  bark  canoe  is  the  horse,  camel,  carriage,  and 
vessel  of  the  Indian.     It  is  made  so  light  that  the 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        161 

owner  can  carry  it  on  his  head  for  miles  through  the 
forest,  and  yet  capable  of  carrying  several  men. 
Each  tribe  has  its  own  pattern,  —  some  exceedingly 
graceful  and  beautiful,  —  so  that,  on  seeing  a  canoe, 
you  can  tell  in  a  moment  to  what  tribe  it  belongs. 
They  are  all  made  of  the  bark  of  the  white  birch, 
lined  with  white  cedar  rived  very  thin,  sewed  with 
the  roots  of  the  spruce,  and  gummed  (or  puccoed, 
as  the  Indians  call  it)  with  the  gum  of  the  same 
tree. 

Has  my  reader  ever  passed  through  the  enchant- 
ing lake,  —  Champlain,  —  from  White  Hall  to  St. 
Johns  ?  If  he  has,  he  has  had  a  great  amount  of 
enjoyment  in  a  small  space,  —  provided  he  had 
some  friend  by  him  to  whom  he  could  say,  "  O,  how 
beautiful ! "  As  he  left  the  bold  shores  and  lofty 
mountains  that  looked  down  on  the  lake  on  both 
sides,  Vermont  and  New  York,  and  came  along 
the  flattened  shores  in  Canada,  did  my  reader  ever 
notice  a  small,  flat  island  in  the  lake,  just  before  he 
reached  St.  Johns  ?  Those  who  speak  the  English 
language  call  it  "  Ash  Island."  The  Indians,  for 
reasons  soon  seen,  call  it  "  Head  Island." 

On  one  occasion,  a  company  of  thirty  Mohawks 
in  their  canoes  passed  through  the  wilderness  which 
I  have  named,  into  Champlain,  and  then  down,  north 
towards  Canada,  in  order  to  waylay  and  intercept 
any  of  the  Abenaquis  who  might  be  coming  up  to 
hunt.  Just  at  night,  the  warriors  killed  a  moose, 
and  landed  on  Ash  Island,  to  camp  for  the  night. 
Here  they  built  their  camp-fire,  and  began  to  roast 

14* 


162  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

their  moose.  Just  after  this,  there  came  along  a 
single  canoe,  containing  an  old  chief  and  three  hunt- 
ers, on  their  way  to  the  hunting-grounds.  Noise- 
lessly they  moved  their  paddles.  Before  they  were 
seen  they  had  discovered  the  smoke  of  the  camp- 
fire.  They  waited  till  dark,  and  then  silently  landed 
on  the  shore  opposite  the  island.  One  of  the  best 
swimmers  was  sent  to  examine  the  canoes,  and  see 
who  were  the  owners.  There  were  bushes  all  around 
the  shores  of  the  island,  and  the  Mohawks  were  busy 
in  cooking  their  supper.  The  night  was  very  dark. 
The  scout  crept  up  among  the  canoes,  which  were 
drawn  up,  and,  according  to  the  immemorial  custom 
of  the  Indian,  turned  bottomside  uppermost.  He  ex- 
amined their  form,  counted  their  number,  and  re- 
turned to  his  companions.  The  cunning  chief  laid 
his  plans  instantly,  and  lost  no  time  in  executing 
them.  He  directed  two  of  his  men  to  swim  silently 
back,  and,  as  still  as  the  night,  to  land,  and  with  a 
sharp  knife  slit  every  canoe  lengthwise  from  end  to 
end.  They  went  on  their  perilous  errand,  —  landed, 
—  crept  up,  and  cut  each  canoe  full  of  slits.  They 
were  just  starting  to  swim  back,  when  a  Mohawk 
rose  up  with  a  hugh  thigh-bone  of  the  moose  in  his 
hand,  which  he  had  just  been  picking.  "  I  wish," 
said  he,  "  that  this  bone  might  strike  an  Abenaquis 
on  the  head  ! "  He  then  gave  it  a  throw  over  tfie 
bushes  into  the  lake,  and,  sure  enough,  it  did  strike 
one  of  the  swimmers  on  the  head,  and  stunned  him  ! 
The  other  Indian  was  close  at  hand,  and  instantly 
understood  it.  He  was  afraid  that,  when  his  com- 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        163 

panion  recovered  from  the  stun,  he  would  thrash  the 
water,  and  make  a  noise.  So  he  silently  and  coolly 
dragged  him  under  water,  and  drowned  him  !  AH 
this  was  the  work  of  silence,  and  of  a  very  little 
time,  and  the  Indian  returned  and  reported  to  his 
chief.  The  three  now  entered  their  canoe,  and, 
paddling  out  towards  the  island,  began  to  fire  on  the 
Mohawks.  These  poor  fellows  raised  their  war- 
whoop,  rushed  into  their  canoes,  and  put  out  into  the 
lake.  But  now  came  their  trouble.  Their  canoes 
began  at  once  to  fill,  and  to  sink.  The  cunning  Abe- 
naquis  came  upon  them  with  the  war-shout.  The 
Mohawks  were  in  amazement,  and  were  knocked  in 
the  head  like  dogs.  They  were  all  killed  except 
one,  who  was  designedly  saved  alive.  What  a  vic- 
tory for  three  men  !  In  the  morning  the  prisoner 
was  brought  forth,  expecting  to  be  put  to  death  by 
all  the  torture  that  could  be  devised.  But  their 
plan  was  different,  though  hardly  less  cruel.  They 
stripped  the  captive,  and  made  him  look  at  the  twen- 
ty-nine heads  of  his  countrymen,  which  were  now 
impaled  on  as  many  stakes,  and  stuck  up  all  round 
the  island.  (This  gave  it  the  name  of  "  Head  Isl- 
and,"— "  uirutup-island.")  They  then  cut  off 
his  nose,  ears,  and  lips,  and  put  him  ashore.  "  Now, 
go  home,"  said  they,  "  go  home,  and  tell  Mohawks 
to  send  more  men  !  Too  easy  for  three  Abenaquis 
to  whip  thirty  men,  —  tell  Mohawks  send  more 
men ! "  The  poor,  maimed  creature  pursued  his 
way  through  the  pathless  wilderness,  and,  after  suf- 
fering incredible  hardships,  reached  his  home,  and 


164  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

told  his  story.  The  Mohawks  were  mortified  be- 
yond expression.  Their  hundreds  of  schemes  for 
retaliation  are  not  told.  But  in  due  time  their  ven- 
geance was  ample  and  full.  The  number  who  lost 
their  lives  as  a  sequel  to  the  "  Head  Island  "  tragedy 
was  very  great. 

"  Shall  we  go  back  and  tell  what  we  have  done  ?" 
said  one  of  the  victors  to  his  chief.  "  No,  no ! 
These  heads  will  stay  here,  and  they  will  tell  the 
story.  We  must  go  on  before  it  be  too  late  to  hunt 
deer  in  the  dark  of  the  moon."  And  onward,  and 
up  the  lake,  the  canoe  moved,  till  they  reached  the 
Saranac,  where  Plattsburg  now  stands,  when  they 
turned  into  that  river,  and  followed  it  up.  They 
made  no  stop,  even  to  hunt,  till  they  had  passed  be- 
yond the  rapids,  one  of  which  is  seven  miles  long. 
Around  all  these  they  carried  their  canoe  and  imple- 
ments for  hunting.  In  a  few  days  they  had  reached 
the  upper  Saranac  Lake,  or,  as  they  called  it,  the 
"  San-belloninipus,"  the  beautiful  lake  !  And  beau- 
tiful it  is,  —  almost  beyond  expression.  Its  waters 
are  deep,  clear,  and  sweet.  The  lake  is  almost  fif- 
teen miles  long,  studded  with  islands,  and  surrounded 
with  enchanting  shores. 

As  the  canoe  merged  into  the  lake  from  the  long 
neck  or  outlet,  the  sachem  held  up  his  hand,  and  the 
paddles  were  motionless. 

"  I  smell  smoke,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
smell  smoke,  —  some  Mohawks  somewhere  in  the 
"lake." 

"  Can  you  see  any  smoke  ?"  said  one  of  his  com- 
panions. 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        165 

"  See  none,  —  smell  him  sure."  The  canoe  moved 
very  slowly  and  silently.  When  opposite  Eagle  Isl- 
and, a  low  whistle  was  heard,  —  so  low  and  feeble, 
that  none  but  an  anxious  ear  would  have  caught  it. 

"That  no  Mohawk,  —  that  Abenaquis  whistle," 
said  the  leader.  He  made  a  motion,  and  the  canoe 
turned  towards  the  island.  Just  as  she  reached  a 
little  niche  on  the  southern  side,  a  young  man  rose 
up  from  the  moss  in  the  bushes,  and,  with  a  leap, 
stood  within  a  few  feet  of  the  canoe. 

"  Sago,  sago,"  said  he  in  a  voice  little  above  a 
whisper.  "  Brave  Tomo  is  very  welcome.  Of  all 
men  in  the  world,  Tomo  is  the  man  I  want  to  see." 

"  Is  the  Saranac  Hawk  alone  ?"  said  Tomo,  with 
a  distrustful  look  around  the  lake. 

"  All  alone." 

"  Was  the  smoke  that  I  smelt  from  the  camp-fire 
of  the  Saranac  Hawk  ?" 

"  No,  old  friend,  it  was  the  smoke  of  the  Mohawks 
who  are  hunting  in  the  upper  part  of  the  lake." 

"  What  is  the  young  Hawk  doing  here  ?"  asked 
Tomo. 

"  Come  up  the  rock,  and  I  will  tell  you.  Come 
alone."  The  chief  stepped  lightly  on  the  rock,  and 
in  a  moment  they  were  both  out  of  sight.  The  ca- 
noe was  lifted  out  of  the  water,  and  laid  over  be- 
hind a  fallen  tree ;  and  in  a  few  moments  no  one 
would  have  suspected  any  one  being  on  the  island. 
Long  and  low  was  the  consultation  between  the 
chief  and  the  young  man  whom  he  called  the"  Sara- 
nac Hawk. 


166  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

The  young  man  might  be  twenty  two  or  four  years 
old.  His  form  was  straight,  lithe,  and  symmetrical. 
His  light  hair  and  blue  eye  showed  that  he  belonged 
to  the  Saxon  race.  He  wore  moccasons,  after  thA 
Indian  fashion,  made  of  the  soft  moose-skin,  and 
which  gave  no  sound  to  the  footsteps.  He  had  a 
green  dress,  in  the  hunter  style,  with  a  knife  hang- 
ing in  a  little  sheath  at  his  side,  a  small  leathern 
ammunition-bag  in  front,  a  little  axe  or  hatchet  hang- 
ing in  his  girdle  behind,  a  green  cap  on  his  head, 
and  a  rifle,  long  and  of  small  bore,  in  his  hand.  His 
eye  was  mild,  but  a  certain  glance  that  accompanied 
a  compressed  mouth  showed  that  the  spirit  that 
looked  out  of  that  eye  was  a  stranger  to  fear  or  to 
indecision. 

"  I  will  give  you  rifle,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  whether  we  succeed  or  not,  if  you  will  only  make 
the  attempt." 

"  Tomo  will  not  want  rifle  to  keep,  if  young  Sara- 
nac  Hawk  be  dead." 

"  But  I  shan't  be  killed  ;  or  if  I. am,  it 's  no  more 
than  I  would  wish  to  do."  These  last  words  were 
spoken  to  himself. 

"  Can't  young  Hawk  find  many  white  squaw  so 
better  as  this  one  ?" 

"  No,  my  good  Tomo,  there  is  none  like  this.  We 
were  children  together,  and  we  have  been  betrothed 
a  long  time." 

"  Umph  !  How  foolish  you  white  folks  a*re  !  When 
Indian  want  squaw,  he  no  do  so.  White  man  court, 
and  court,  and  court  great  while,  —  may-be  years. 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        167 

When  Indian  want  wife  he  go  to  young  squaw,  —  sit 
down  by  her,  —  then  he  hold  up  two  forefingers,  ^— 
then  squaw  he  laugh, —  then  they  already  be  married. 
Much  better  way  !  " 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  the  young  man  impatiently ; 
"  but  what  will  Tomo  do  ?  Will  he  help  me  ?" 

"  He  smoke  first,  then  think." 

As  quick  as  said,  the  young  man  had  his  flint  and 
steel  out,  and  his  well-filled  tobacco  pouch  at  his 
friend's  service.  The  other  two  Indians  were  then 
brought  in  to  help  smoke  and  think.  Among  them 
all  there  were  not  provisions  enough  for  a  single 
meal.  The  first  thing  was  to  procure  something  to 
eat,  and  the  next  was  to  devise  how  to  cook  it  with- 
out making  a  fire.  After  a  long  season  of  silence, 
which  seemed  interminable  to  the  young  Saxon,  the 
old  Indian  said,  "  We  want  to  help  young  Saranac 
Hawk  to  get  his  bird,  but  are  few.  We  only  four, 
and  Mohawk  thirteen,  and  much  dogs  to  smell  and 
bark." 

"  We  must  do  head-work,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  since  our  arms  are  too  short  to  reach  them.  Let 
me  speak  my  thoughts  into  Tomo's  ears.  We  must 
go  off  at  once,  —  cross  over  the  carrying-place, — 
pass  through  Stony  Ponds  and  Stony  Brook,  —  go  up 
the  Raquette, —  cross  Moore  Mountain,  go  up  to  In- 
capacho-inipus  (Long  Lake),  there  kill  deer  and 
dry  meat.  They  can't  hear  our  guns  so  far,  nor  see 
our  fires.  We  will  then  come  back  and  make  them 
think  Chepi  (ghosts)  have  come.  We  can  do  all 
this  in  two  nights,  and  by  that  time  they  will  be  done 


168  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

hunting  in  Fish  Ponds,  and  come  on  this  lake,  and 
then  we  have  good  place  to  be  Chepi." 

"  Young  Hawk  say  well." 

Each  one  then  drew  the  girdle  tighter  around  the 
loins,  and  stood  ready  to  start.  Cautiously,  without 
stepping  on  a  single  dry  stick,  did  old  Tomo  go  to 
the  best  point  of  observation,  and  look  out  over  the 
lake.  Far  in  the  distance,  miles  away,  he  saw  a 
speck,  which  at  first  he  thought  was  a  loon ;  but  a 
further  look  convinced  him  that  it  was  a  canoe  cross- 
ing the  lake  towards  Fish  Creek.  "  They  have  been 
into  the  lake  fishing,"  thought  he,  "  and  are  now 
going  to  their  hunting-ground  for  the  night." 

From  Eagle  Island  was  a  distance  of  about  three 
miles  when  they  came  to  the  "  carrying-place."  On 
landing,  the  young  man  with  his  rifle  went  forward 
in  the  little  path,  to  be  seen  only  by  the  practised 
eye.  Behind  him  came  the  canoe  carried  on  the 
head  of  an  Indian  ;  and  then  followed  the  others,  all 
in  silence.  In  a  time  almost  inacedible  they  had 
passed  through  the  woods  about  a  mile,  when  they 
came  to  a  small  pond.  What  a  beautiful  place  !  It 
was  about  half  a  mile  in  diameter,  perfectly  round, 
and  its  clear,  beautiful  waters  seemed  to  reflect  back 
the  trees  that  stood  around  it,  and  the  heavens  which 
hung  over  it.  It  was  indeed  the  jewel  of  the  desert. 
On  its  grassy  shores  were  more  than  one  deer  timid- 
ly feeding,  while  here  and  there  the  huge  trout  threw 
out  his  forked  tail  in  sheer  ecstasy.  A  single  "loon 
sat  in  the  middle  of  the  pond,  and  raised  his  clear, 
shrill  notes  on  seeing  the  new-comers.  As  this  was 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        169 

in  the  travelled  way  of  the  Mohawks,  the  company 
hurried  on  silently.  The  very  rifle  in  the  hands  of 
the  youth  seemed  to  ache  to  shoot  one  of  the  deer, 
but  prudence  told  him  better.  They  slackened  not 
their  efforts  till  they  had  passed  through  those  beau- 
tiful ponds,  —  and  down  Stony  Brook  into  the  Ra- 
quette  River.  They  then  turned  up  the  river,  and 
felt  safer,  because  now  out  of  track  of  any  new  band 
of  Mohawks  who  might  be  coming  up  the  Raquette. 
By  great  and  almost  superhuman  labors,  they  were 
over  and  beyond  the  upper  falls  by  sunset.  Here 
they  might  safely  hunt ;  for  the  roar  of  the  falls,  full 
one  and  a  half  miles  of  rocks  and  roar,  precluded 
the  possibility  of  their  being  heard.  Not  a  morsel 
of  food  had  they  eaten  during  all  the  journey  of  one 
day.  Two  of  the  Indians  now  made  a  camp-fire, 
and,  having  smoked  their  pipe,  coiled  up  under  the 
smoke,  and  in  a  few  minutes  were  fast  asleep.  The 
chief  peeled  a  small  spruce,  and  with  its  bark  and  a 
stick  of  a  yard  in  length  soon  made  "  a  jack,"  or 
half  lantern,  —  open  in  front  and  dark  behind.  He 
next  got  some  dry  roots  of  pine,  full  of  gum,  and 
highly  inflammable.  Then  some  dry  outside  bark 
of  the  cedar,  which  he  pounded  very  fine,  and  tied 
with  green  bark,  —  which  was  the  "Indian  candle." 
By  midnight  the  jack  was  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe, 
the  pitchy  roots  in  the  jack  ready  to  be  lighted  up  in 
an  instant,  and  the  Indian  candle  lighted  and  slowly 
burning,  like  the  end  of  a  dry  rope.  They  were 
going  to  hunt  deer  in  the  Indian,  way.  In  the  bow 
of  the  canoe  sat  the  young  man  just  behind  the  jack, 
15 


170  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

while  the  old  Indian  sat  in  the  stern  to  paddle.  In 
perfect  silence  and  darkness  the  canoe  moved  up  the 
river  towards  the  outlet  of  Long  Lake.  The  plunge 
of  the  muskrat,  and  the  lunge  of  the  otter  as  he 
gambolled  and  slid  off  the  steep  bank  into  the  water, 
were  frequent ;  but  no  deer  was  heard.  At  length 
a  noise  like  a  calf  walking  in  the  water  was  heard, 
and  the  young  man  raised  the  Indian  candle  and 
swung  it  in  the  air  a  few  times,  and  it  was  all  in  a 
light  blaze.  He  then  applied  it  to  the  pine-knots  in 
the  jack,  and  they  too  were  on  fire.  There  was 
now  a  strong  light  thrown  out  in  front  of  the  canoe, 
while  all  behind  the  jack  was  perfect  darkness. 
Slowly,  and  without  lifting  his  paddle  from  the  wa- 
ter, and  almost  without  moving  it,  the  Indian  turned 
the  canoe  towards  the  deer.  As  it  neared  the  ani- 
mal, he  was  seen  standing  in  the  water  about  knee 
deep.  He  looked  at  the  light  without  moving,  while 
his  eyeballs  seemed  to  be  balls  of  fire.  He  seemed 
like  a  picture  of  a  huge  deer,  —  such  a  picture  as  is 
thrown  upon  the  canvas  by  the  magic  lantern.  The 
bats  are  flying  in  all  directions,  —  the  owls  seem  to 
be  holding  a  jubilee,  and  hoot  and  laugh  and  sneeze 
in  all  imaginable  and  unimaginable  tones.  The 
strange  light  changes  the  trees  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  into  all  manner  of  shapes,  —  castles,  towers, 
churches,  and  palaces.  The  thin,  cold  fog  rises 
from  the  river  like  a  veil,  and  again  the  banks  are 
covered  with  domes,  and  pyramids,  and  cones  6(  sil- 
ver. The  forest  seems  like  a  breastwork  of  most 
wonderful  workmanship.  The  wild-cat,  too,  screams, 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        171 

and  the  wolf  in  the  distance  is  howling.  But  the 
deer,  —  the  deer !  The  Indian  and  the  young  man 
keep  their  eye  on  him  alone.  There  he  stands,  —  a 
huge  buck,  with  his  monstrous  horns  and  his  eyes  of 
fire !  He  dreams  of  no  danger.  He  never  thinks 
of  what  may  be  behind  the  brilliant  light.  The  ca- 
noe hardly  moves,  and  the  Indian  gently  shakes  it, 
as  much  as  to  say,  I  can  go  no  further.  The  rifle 
rises  up,  the  outer  sight  just  so  as  to  have  the  light 
strike  it,  while  the  back  sight  is  in  the  dark.  But  the 
young  Hawk  knows  what  he  is  about.  Quick  as 
thought  he  raises  the  deadly  iron,  and  a  stream  of 
fire  leaps  from  its  muzzle.  The  deer  gives  one  su- 
pernatural leap  high  in  the  air,  and  drops  dead! 
"  The  Saranac  Hawk  no  forget' where  to  point  the 
winding  gun  yet,"  said  the  Indian,  in  great  admira- 
tion. By  straining  every  muscle,  they  got  the  deer 
into  the  canoe,  and  returned  to  the  starting-place. 
The  two  sleepers  were  now  aroused,  who  proceeded 
to  dress  the  deer,  and  to  roast  unweighed  steaks  for 
their  repast.  After  which  the  two  hunters  went  to 
rest ;  and  they  sat  up,  and  cut  up  the  deer  and  dried 
it  in  the  smoke  and  blaze  of  their  fire.  They 
worked,  and  the  others  slept,  till  ten  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  when  a  now  meal  was  cooked,  and  nearly 
a  hundred  pounds  were  cured  and  ready  for  trans- 
portation. They  were  now  prepared  to  return  and 
carry  their  plans  into  execution. 

About  a  fortnight  previous  to  the  commencement 
of  our  story,  a  young  man  was  walking  home  with 
a  charming  girl,  the  choice  and  the  pride  of  his  heart, 


172  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

in  one  of  those  deep  and  beautiful  glens  which  are 
so  frequent  in  Vermont.  Their  parents  had  removed 
into  this  new  and  wild  country  years  ago,  and  had 
lived  as  neighbors  and  friends,  —  their  log-houses 
being  about  two  miles  apart.  But  others  had  come 
in,  and  the  forest  had  fallen  before  the  ringing  axe  ; 
the  humble  school-house  was  seen  at  an  early  date, 
and  all  the  blessings  which  follow  in  the  wake  of 
shrewd  and  watchful  industry.  Robert  Ralston  and 
Mary  Parker  were  the  eldest  in  each  family,  and 
from  infancy  they  were  so  frequently  in  each  other's 
society,  that  it  happened  very  early,  that,  if  either 
was  absent  from  the  little  log  school-house,  the  other 
found  it  a  long  and  profitless  day.  Robert  was  sure 
to  find  the  earliest  flowers  of  the  wilderness  in  the 
spring,  and  the  sweetest  wild-grass  in  the  autumn, 
and  Mary  was  never  forgotten.  If  the  wolves  were 
more  plenty  than  common,  or  if  the  snow  was  deep 
and  untrodden,  Robert  was  sure  to  see  that  Mary  got 
safely  home.  The  heart  beats  in  the  wilderness  just 
as  it  does  in  the  city,  only  more  freely  and  purely. 
Nothing  had  crossed  them,  and  by  the  time  they  had 
arrived  at  manhood  and  womanhood,  they  ran  to  each 
other  like  two  birds  that  had  never  been  separated, 
and  never  dreamed  that  they  could  be.  Almost 
without  the  common  hopes,  and  fears,  and  crosses 
of  lovers,  it  seemed  to  be  understood,  that,  as  soon 
as  Robert  should  get  his  farm  cleared  up,  and  a  com- 
fortable house  and  barn,  they  should  go  and  occupy. 
And  so  manfully  had  Robert  applied  himself,  that 
the  crops  were  in,  the  house  raised,  —  for  the  second 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.       173 

generation  of  houses  in  Vermont  were  all  framed 
houses,  —  the  barn  was  built,  and  partly  filled,  and  a 
hug-horn  cow,  that  would  have  been  admired  at  any 
agricultural  fair,  had  such  things  then  been  in  vogue, 
fed  in  the  pasture  near  by.  Mary  had  her  prepara- 
tions well  under  way,  her  chest  of  towels  and  sheets 
all  of  pure  linen,  and  most  of  them  the  work  of  her 
own  nimble  fingers.  In  two  months  they  were  to  be 
married. 

They  were  walking  together  towards  Mary's  house 
just  at  evening,  and  engaged  in  conversation  in  the 
twilight  voice  of  love,  when  suddenly  a  light  glanced 
through  the  trees,  red  and  fierce.  Robert  turned  his 
head,  and  saw  in  a  moment  that  it  must  come  from 
his  new  farm.  "  What  can  the  matter  be  ?  "  said 
he.  The  red  glare  increased.  "  Mary,  can  you  get 
home  alone,  dear  ?  There  must  be  something  wrong 
up  yonder." 

"  Certainly,  Robert,  I  can  already  see  our  house, 
and  shall  be  there  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  lover  gave  the  hasty  kiss,  and  darted  off 
through  the  woods,  intending  to  reach  his  new  farm 
by  a  shorter  way  than  the  usual  road.  That  de- 
termination saved  his  life.  Although  he  ran  like  a 
deer,  yet  the  distance  was  over  a  mile,  and  the  woods 
were  dark,  and  so  full  of  bushes  and  fallen  trees  that 
it  was  long  before  he  reached  it.  But  when  he  did 
reach  it,  how  his  heart  sunk  within  him  !  His  house, 
and  barn,  and  their  contents,  were  burning  into  ashes. 
Elsie,  his  pretty  cow,  was  in  the  agonies  of  death  by 
inhuman  butchery,  and  his  pigs,  and  a  pet  lamb,  were 
15* 


174  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

all  killed.  The  poor  fellow  could  hardly  keep  from 
weeping  aloud.  He  sat  down  on  a  stump  in  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  where  the  light  of  the  fires  could 
not  reveal  his  person,  if  the  foe  were  anywhere 
round,  and  there  sat  as  motionless  as  the  black  stump 
on  which  he  sat.  He  knew  that  this  must  be  the 
work  of  hostile  Indians,  —  but  why  they  should  se- 
lect him,  he  could  not  tell.  The  only  imaginable 
reason  to  be  assigned  was,  that  once,  on  a  hunting 
excursion,  he  delivered  the  old  chief,  Tomo,  from 
the  hands  of  his  enemies,  who  had  nearly  surrounded 
him,  and  were  exulting  that  ha  a  few  hours  they 
should  have  him  in  their  power,  and  under  their  tor- 
tures. He  did  it  by  stratagem,  or  "  head-work,"  as 
Tomo  called  it.  Since  that,  he  and  Tomo  had  been 
the  best  of  friends.  Tomo  gave  him  an  Indian  name, 
signifying  "  Saranac  Hawk."  But  while  this  gave 
Robert  one  warm  friend  in  Tomo,  it  made  all  Tomo's 
enemies  to  be  his.  They  marked  him  for  their  ven- 
geance. While  thinking  over  the  present  and  the 
future  he  happened  to  turn  his  eyes  back,  and  anoth- 
er stream  of  fire  sent  out  its  red  light.  It  was  in  the 
direction  of  Mary's  home.  Like  a  lion,  he  bounded 
away  in  the  path  which  he  had  not  taken,  but  which 
the  Indians  had,  regardless  of  nothing.  Away  the 
poor  fellow  bounded,  till  he  reached  the  well-known 
opening,  and,  truly  enough,  Mr.  Parker's  house  and 
barns  were  in  a  bright  flame.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be 
seen.  The  Indians  had  done  the  mischief,  and  were 
off.  By  and  by  a  neighbor  came  cautiously  up,  and 
among  others,  the  Parker  family,  who  had  fled  into 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        175 

the  woods  at  the  shouts  of  the  savages,  —  all  but 
Mary,  —  no  one  knew  what  had  become  of  her. 
There  were  no  signs  of  blood  or  murder,  and  it  was 
evident  that  she  had  not  been  consumed  in  the  house, 
unless  she  had  first  been  murdered.  But,  oh!  the 
agony  of  doubts  and  fears  !  They  lifted  up  their 
voices  and  wept.  The  fires  sent  up  their  bright  light 
upon  the  surrounding  forest,  only  rendering  it  more 
intensely  dark  beyond  their  glare.  They  hung 
around  the  smouldering  ashes,  till,  after  a  most  wea- 
ry night,  the  morning  came.  Then  how  anxious  to 
find  the  trail  of  the  foe,  and  to  find  who  and  what 
they  were.  Long  and  anxiously  did  they  search 
and  follow  the  woods ;  but  so  cunning  had  the  In- 
dians been  in  concealing  their  retreat,  by  walking 
backwards  over  soft  places,  wading  and  following 
brooks,  and  the  like,  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
follow  them.  But  in  the  course  of  the  second  day 
Robert  Ralston  got  fairly  on  the  trail,  and  with  thrill- 
ing joy  found  the  footprints  of  Mary  Parker !  She 
was  then  alive  !  These  were  the  prints  of  her  own 
little  foot !  They  were  even  and  regular,  too,  as  if 
she  was  well  and  strong,  though  undoubtedly  sore  at 
heart.  Without  stopping  for  food,  or  any  thing  save 
his  rifle,  Robert  followed  the  marauders,  determined 
to  rescue  his  betrothed,  or  die  in  the  attempt.  In  a 
light  bark  canoe,  he  followed  them  on  the  waters, 
and  carried  it  over  the  mountains,  till  he  had  found 
them  in  the  upper  Saranac  Lake,  as  before  mentioned. 
He  was  hanging  on  their  rear  when  Tomo  and  his 
two  companions  came  to  him.  Not  daring  to  fire 


176  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

his  rifle,  or  to  make  a  fire  in  the  daytime,  he  had 
lived  on  fish  caught  at  daybreak,  and  cooked  in  the 
dead  of  the  following  night. 

Once  more  the  little  party  were  at  the  lower  end 
of  the  Saranac,  while  the  enemy,  with  their  captive, 
was  at  the  upper  end,  fifteen  miles  distant.  They 
had  come  out  of  the  pond,  and  were  camped  on  a 
point  projecting  into  the  lake,  by  which  the  upper 
end  is  made  into  a  bay  in  the  shape  of  a  T.  Softly 
they  went  up  the  lake  near  the  shore,  listening  to 
every  sound,  and  watching  every  ripple  of  the  wa- 
ters. About  midnight  they  passed  the  camp  of  the 
Indians,  so  silently  that  not  a  dog  barked.  They 
could  see  that  they  had  just  come  in  from  their  night 
hunting,  were  talking  and  laughing,  and  apparently 
delighted  with  their  success.  The  smell  of  roasting 
venison  filled  the  air.  Robert  tried  to  pierce  the 
darkness,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Mary,  but  in  vain. 
In  pursuance  of  their  plan,  upon  which  Robert  had 
been  contriving  and  working  all  day,  and  the  night 
previous,  somewhere  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing one  of  the  Mohawks  aroused  his  companions, 
and  pointed  to  a  small,  bright,  steady  light  on  Watch 
Rock,  about  a  mile  distant.  They  all  started  up, 
and  set  off  to  see  what  it  meant.  In  a  moment,  two 
more  lights  were  seen,  one  east  and  the  other  west, 
deep  in  the  bay  !  What  could  it  be  ?  As  they  came 
near  Watch  Rock,  instantly  the  light  was  quenched. 
The  others  followed,  and  went  out.  They  went  round 
the  rock,  went  to  the  shores,  —  could  hear  nothing, 
could  sec  nothing  !  Again  they  went  to  their  camp 


TOMO,  AND  THE  WILD  LAKES.        177 

to  consult,  when,  lo !  these  lights  appeared  again  in 
three  different  places !  They  listened,  but  all  was 
silence.  They  now  began  to  be  afraid.  It  must 
be  Chepi !  (ghosts.)  The  captive  maiden,  slightly 
bound,  has  her  curiosity  excited,  and  saw  at  once 
that  it  must  be  the  light  of  the  candle,  —  sure  sign 
that  the  white  man  was  near !  She  thought,  too,  that 
they  burned  steady  and  clear,  like  the  candles  of 
beeswax,  which  she  had  made  for  her  own  Robert 
to  hunt  with !  She  doubted  in  her  own  mind  wheth- 
er they  were  intended  as  signals  to  her,  or  for  strat- 
agem. After  much  talking,  and  doubting,  and  fear, 
the  Mohawks  concluded  once  more  to  go  out  and 
see  if  it  certainly  was  Chepi,  —  and  if  so,  to  break 
up  their  camp,  and  be  away  as  quickly  as  possible. 
They  took  their  dogs  with  them  to  aid  in  the  search. 
The  lights  now  seemed  to  burn  up  directly  out  of  the 
water  !  Again  they  came  near,  and  again,  one  after 
another,  went  out  before  they  reached  them.  One 
of  the  old  dogs  stuck  his  nose  over  the  side  of  the 
canoe,  and,  after  snuffing  a  moment,  uttered  a  yell ! 
They  all  stopped  and  listened ;  but  nothing  was  to 
be  heard.  Did  old  Wamparetah  (white-foot)  see 
or  hear  a  Chepi  ?  Again  they  turned  towards  their 
camp,  and  when  about  half  way  to  it  from  where 
the  lights  were,  they  heard  a  blow,  a  low  scream, 
and  the  paddles  of  a  canoe !  Cautiously  they  came 
to  their  camp,  when  they  found  the  sentinel  whom 
they  left  with  the  captive  lying  dead,  with  a  blow 
which  had  crushed  his  skull.  The  captive,  too, 
was  gone,  the  fires  put  out  or  mostly  so.  Was  it 
Chepi  ?  They  smoked  and  talked  in  low  tones,  till 


178  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

the  day 'dawned.  They  then  found  the  footprints 
of  other  feet  besides  their  own,  and  little  pieces  of 
bark  floating  on  the  lake  with  pieces  of  candle  on 
them,  so  well  cut,  as  to  length,  as  to  be  quenched 
at  the  right  time.  They  were  more  chagrined  still, 
to  find  how  completely  they  had  been  deceived. 

The  low  scream  which  the  Mohawks  heard  was 
that  of  joy,  when  the  captive  maiden  saw  her  lover 
strike  one  blow  at  the  sentinel,  and  catch  her  in  his 
arms  the  next  moment.  Quick  as  a  deer  the  youth 
bounded  with  her  in  his  arms  into  the  canoe,  and 
long  before  the  Mohawks  got  back  to  their  camp, 
they  were  far  down  the  lake. 

All  that  night  and  the  next  day,  the  little  party 
pushed  on.  On  the  second  day,  on  "  The  Plains  of 
Abraham,"  they  met  a  party  of  Green  Mountain 
boys  in  pursuit.  Loud  were  the  cheers,  warm  the 
greetings,  and  unaffected  the  joy,  when  Robert  showed 
the  unscathed,  blushing  maiden  hanging  on  his  arm. 
But  who  can  tell  the  tears  and  sobs  when  he  deliv- 
ered her  to  "  the  old  folks"  ?  They  trembled,  and 
wept,  and  laughed,  and  screamed.  The  loss  of  prop- 
erty was  forgotten,  Und  all  united  in  a  day  of  spe- 
cial thanksgiving  to  God,  for  his  great  goodness. 
The  neighbors  all  turned  in  and  helped  Robert  put 
up  a  new  house,  and  so  he  actually  won  his  bride  a 
month  sooner  than  he  otherwise  would.  Old  Tomo 
assured  all  concerned,  that  the  lesson  which  the  Mo- 
hawks had  received  at  Head  Island,  and  on  the  Sara- 
nac  Lake,  would  keep  them  away  in  future.  He 
pronounced  Mary  a  pretty  squaw,  but  stood  to  it  that 
the  white  man  did  not  know  how  to  court  a  wife. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT: 


OR,  REMINISCENCES  OF  OLD  DOCTOR  MICAH 
ASHER. 


PART  I. 

THE  young  medical  student  who  now  goes  to  the 
medical  school,  where  he  meets  with  a  multitude  of 
eager  young  men  pursuing  the  same  end,  where  are 
learned  professors  to  instruct  them,  a  beautiful  cab- 
inet, opportunities  to  visit  hospitals,  to  witness  surgi- 
cal operations,  to  obtain  subjects  for  dissection,  and 
to  read  from  a  full  library,  can  have  no  conception 
of  what  it  was  to  become  an  eminent  physician  fifty- 
five  years  ago.  If  he  shall  advance  as  far  beyond 
the  men  of  that  period  as  his  opportunities  are  great- 
er than  theirs,  he  will  indeed  be  a  distinguished  man. 
Now  that  the  frosts  of  seventy  years  are  upon  me,  I 
have  thought  perhaps  it  would  interest  my  young 
brethren  of  the  profession  to  have  me  recall  some  of 
the  incidents  in  my  professional  life.  "  Acti  labores 
jucundi,"  and  I  hope  to  be  pardoned  if  I  am  more 
egotistical  than  some  would  allow  to  be  in  good  taste. 
It  is  the  privilege  of  age  to  be  garrulous. 


180  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

One  of  my  earliest  and  deepest  impressions  was 
made  by  our  old  family  doctor.  He  was  a  large, 
portly  man,  kind-hearted,  good-tempered,  though  his 
speech  was  quick,  seldom  giving  offence,  and  always 
right  in  principle.  His  presence  always  lighted  up 
a  smile  on  the  face  of  his  patient,  for  the  angel  of 
hope  always  accompanied  him.  How  often  in  my 
childhood  have  I  slipped  behind  the  great  pear-tree 
by  the  garden  gate,  and  watched  him,  as  he  dis- 
mounted,—  for  he  always  rode  horseback, — throw 
his  huge  saddle-bags  over  his  left  arm,  and  slowly 
walk  into  the  house  without  knocking  !  I  knew  that 
in  those  saddle-bags  were  mysteries,  and  horrors, 
and  sleeping  agencies  of  great  power,  and  I  looked 
upon  them  as  an  Indian  might  be  supposed  to  look 
upon  a  charged  bomb-shell,  —  not  knowing  when  or 
how  it  might  explode.  I  felt  sure,  for  "  all  the  boys 
said  so,"  that  his  emetics  were  made  of  toads  caught 
alive,  and  carefully  baked  and  ground  to  a  powder. 
With  what  reverence  did  I  look  upon  "  the  Doctor," 
—  a  man  who  could  feel  the  pulse  and  detect  a  fever 
in  the  wrist,  who  could  extract  teeth,  take  blood, 
draw  a  blister,  order  emetics,  and  make  even  stub- 
born "  old  Csesar  "  swallow  pills,  salts,  ipecac,  jalap, 
however  much  he  might  writhe  his  great  black  face, 
and  make  mouths,  or  shrug  the  shoulders.  Next  to 
the  minister  whom  I  saw  in  the  pulpit,  I  considered 
the  doctor  the  greatest  man  living,  and  at  a  very 
early  agdH  determined  to  be  a  physician.  How 
often  did  I  return  to  my  humble  home  with  bundles 
of  wild  weeds,  or  my  hat  full  of  "  goldthread,"  dug 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  181 

up  in  the  swamp !  How  rich  I  felt  when  I  had  a 
supply  of  "  pennyroyal,"  "  motherwort,"  "  bone- 
set,"  "  snake-root,"  "  elm-bark,"  "  elder-berries," 
and  every  other  herb  with  which  I  could  fill  the  gar- 
ret. I  remember  catching  some  green  frogs  and 
putting  them  in  air-tight  bottles,  because  I  had  heard 
that  they  were  good  to  draw  canker  from  children's 
mouths ;  but  they  unfortunately  died  before  the  ex- 
periment could  be  tested.  Not  a  plant  grew  in 
"  Canoe  Swamp,"  in  the  "  Wampas  Lot,"  or  in  the 
"  Ma-ple  Lot,"  from  the  "  adder's-tongue  "  up  to  the 
"  whistle-wood,"  with  which  I  was  not  familiar.  All 
the  good  old  ladies,  for  miles  round,  said,  "  That 
boy  '11  certainly  make  a  doctor,  —  he  takes  to  it  so." 

Thus  I  passed  my  boyhood  on  a  farm,  enjoying  no 
advantages  for  education,  except  such  as  were  af- 
forded by  the  common  free  schools  strung  along  the 
base  of  the  Green  Mountains,  from  the  bluffs  at  New 
Haven  to  Canada.  Medicine  was  my  amusement 
during  the  sunny  days  of  boyhood.  If  any  of  our 
domestic  animals  were  sick,  or  looked  sick,  I  was 
down  upon  them  at  once,  and  I  distinctly  remember 
(why  can't  we  as  distinctly  remember  what  we  have 
done  to  human  patients  in  the  course  of  our  prac- 
tice ?)  giving  my  old  dog  Rover  a  dose  that  made 
him  afraid  of  me  for  a  whole  year,  and  our  one-eyed 
cat,  Cyclops,  a  prescription  that  threw  her  into  fits, 
and  the  young  turkey,  Taro,  a  few  pills  which  for 
ever  after  stopped  his  growing  and  gobbling.  I  called 
them  my  "  elongated  pills." 

At  the  age  of  twenty-two  I  found  myself,  with  an- 
16 


182  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

other  student,  and  with  a  medical  book  protruding 
from  each  pocket,  fairly  on  the  track  of  my  profes- 
sion at  old  Dr.  Sale's.  He  had  a  great  reputation 
for  being  a  deep  man  ;  and  if  talking  in  supertech- 
nical  language,  and  in  a  way  not  to  be  understood 
by  any  body,  is  evidence  of  depth,  then  he  was  a 
deep  man.  But  I  have  since  learned  that  the  world 
will  call  a  man  deep  who  brings  up  mud,  whether  he 
dive  deep  for  it  or  not.  The  great  burden  of  his  in- 
structions to  his  brace  of  students  was  on  "  the  great 
importance  of  commanding  the  temper,  keeping  cool, 
and  having  the  feelings  in  an  imperturbable  state  of 
quiescence."  Alas  !  he  was  the  most  irritable  and 
passionate  man  I  ever  knew.  I  had  been  with  him 
at  a  distance  one  afternoon  to  visit  a  patient,  and  it 
was  a  cold  April  midnight  before  we  got  home.  The 
Doctor's  house  stood  on  the  very  apex  of  a  high  hill, 
and  on  the  west  side  of  it  was  a  very  steep  descent. 
In  trying  to  find  the  kitchen  door,  —  it  was  very 
dark,  —  the  Doctor  stumbled  over  something,  he 
knew  not  what.  "  Hang  it  and  dang  it !  "  cried  he, 
for  he  never  swore  in  good  English.  "  Here,  Mike, 
take  hold  of  this  confounded  shin-breaker,  and  let  us 
see  if  we  can't  get  it  out  of  the  way  !  "  We  lifted  a 
while,  when  he  gave  it  a  furious  kick,  and  away 
down  the  hill  it  went,  rattling,  and  bounding,  and 
clinking,  till  it  reached  the  brook  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill.  "  There  !  lie  there,  will  ye  !  "  said  he.  The 
next  morning  I  heard  his  meek  wife  lamenting  that 
"  all  her  new  soap  was  spread  over  the  ground  like 
gravy,  and  the  only  soap-kettle  in  the  region  cracked 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  183 

and  ruined."  This  was  his  imperturbation,  and,  as 
he  prided  himself  in  governing  his  temper,  I  used  to 
wonder  what  it  would  have  been  had  he  not  gov- 
erned it. 

I  now  began  to  find  real  difficulties.  I  had  very 
few  books,  had  never  seen  the  skeleton  or  frame  of 
the  human  body,  and  had  never  witnessed  a  surgical 
operation,  or  a  body  dissected.  O,  if  I  could  have 
had  a  skeleton  to  look  at  for  a  single  hour  !  Acci- 
dentally, or  rather  providentially,  about  this  time  I 
met  with  an  old  hunter,  who  had  spent  most  of  his 
life  in  the  wilderness.  In  narrating  his  exploits,  he 
told  how  he  and  a  fellow-hunter  had  once  found  a 
man  dead  in  the  forests,  who  had  probably  got  lost 
and  eventually  died  of  starvation.  The  hunters 
buried  him  slightly,  and  placed  a  heap  of  stones 
over  the  grave.  I  made  the  most  minute  inquiries 
of  the  old  man,  as  to  the  spot,  the  route  to  it,  the  dis- 
tance, and  the  like.  I  then  tried  to  draw  a  map  of 
the  way ;  but  I  soon  found  that  when  imagination 
came  to  retire,  and  knowledge  to  tell  what  she  knew, 
it  was  a  very  different  affair.  I  retired  to  think  and 
to  plan.  The  grave  was  in  the  heart  of  the  great 
wilderness  in  the  State  of  New  York,  on  a  little  lake, 
called  by  the  hunters  "  Cranberry  Lake,"  and  known 
only  by  them.  I  knew  it  would  be  impossible  to  get 
a  hunter  to  go  with  me  on  such  an  errand,  or  even 
to  allow  me  to  go  if  he  knew  my  object.  Would  it 
be  possible  for  me  to  go  alone  ?  Would  it  be  possi- 
ble for  me  actually  to  possess  a  human  skeleton  ?  I  • 
determined  to  try.  So  on  a  certain  day  I  was  at  the 


184  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

last  hunter's  lodge,  on  the  Saranac  River,  question- 
ing old  Mr.  Moody  as  to  the  route,  the  crossings  from 
river  to  lake,  and  from  one  water  to  another,  as  to 
"  the  carrying-places,"  and,  comparing  his  answers 
with  my  map,  it  seemed  madness  to  attempt  to  go 
alone,  as  really  so  as  if  I  were  setting  out  for  the 
moon.  But  I  procured  a  little  boat  from  Moody,  and, 
taking  an  old  rifle,  a  bag  of  provisions,  and  an  axe, 
launched  my  frail  craft  on  the  lower  Saranac  Lake, 
and  set  off  alone.  What  days  of  toil  I  had,  search- 
ing for  outlets  to  the  lakes,  carrying  my  boat  through 
the  woods  and  brush,  guided  by  trees  marked  by  the 
Indian's  tomahawk,  sleeping  on  the  ground,  and  half 
killed  by  fear  of  the  panthers,  with  which  the  forest 
abounded  !  On  the  fifth  day  I  had  travelled  perhaps 
a  hundred  miles  in  my  circuitous  route,  when  I  came 
to  "  the  Great  Falls,"  on  the  Rachette  River,  and 
then  knew  that  I  must  here  leave  my  boat  and  strike 
off  through  the  woods  for  Cranberry  Lake.  Draw- 
ing my  boat  up  carefully  into  the  bushes,  I  found  a 
new  cause  of  fear.  It  was  an  Indian  newspaper! 
i.  e.  one  side  of  a  large  cedar  had  been  hewn  off, 
and  on  it,  with  charcoal,  was  drawn  an  Indian  canoe, 
with  two  men  in  it  paddling,  a  dog  looking  out,  and 
six  deer's  (buck's)  heads.  The  canoe  was  headed 
down  stream.  A  full  moon  was  over  them,  and  a 
buck's  head  under  it.  By  this  I  knew  that  there 
were  Indians  near  me,  who  had  just  gone  down  the 
river,  having  killed  six  bucks  already,  and  were  to 
spend  the  full  moon  in  hunting  below.  This  was  for 
the  information  of  other  Indians  who  might  wish  to 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  185 

find  them.  I  concealed  my  boat  with  great  caution, 
and  set  off  at  once  for  my  lake.  A  deer  bounded 
up  before  me,  but  I  was  too  much  afraid  of  the  In- 
dians to  let  my  rifle  be  heard.  All  that  day  I  trav- 
elled in  the  woods  by  the  instructions  I  had  received. 
How  often  I  hastened  towards  a  bright  spot  in  the 
woods  before  me  in  hopes  of  seeing  my  lake,  and 
how  my  heart  leaped  for  joy  when,  just  before  sun- 
set, I  actually  struck  it !  I  could  have  kissed  its  very 
mud.  How  I  found  the  poor  stranger's  grave,  and 
exulted  as  a  miser  would  have  done  over  gold,  and 
how  I  worked,  and  toiled,  and  finally  got  the  bones 
—  every  one  of  them  !  —  into  my  bag,  and  on  my 
back,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe.  It  cost  me 
three  days'  hard  work,  and  work  not  the  most  pleas- 
ant. And  I  was  ready  to  set  out  for  my  boat,  and 
set  out  I  did,  but  had  hardly  left  the  lake  ere  I  was 
lost !  It  was  cloudy,  the  forest  was  thick  and  wet, 
and  I  knew  nothing  which  way  to  go.  The  man 
that  is  lost  in  the  woods  is  not  merely  bewildered, 
but  he  is  maddened.  I  rushed  one  way  till  exhaust- 
ed, and  then  another  way,  but  the  trees  were  all 
alike,  and  I  was  lost.  The  night  came  on,  —  wet, 
cold,  and  dreary.  My  provisions  were  gone,  for  I 
had  been  nearly  twice  as  long  in  the  forest  as  I  ex- 
pected. My  punk  was  wet,  and  my  knife  and  steel 
would  afford  me  no  fire.  So  I  lay  down  in  the  great 
woods,  lost,  without  food  or  fire,  with  no  company 
but  the  dead  man's  bones  !  The  wolves  were  howl- 
ing near  me,  and  the  sharp  cry  of  the  panther  was 
added,  while  the  owls  sang  a  full  and  dismal  chorus. 
16* 


186  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

What  a  long,  awful  night  was  that !  Should  I  ever 
find  the  way  out  of  this  mighty  forest,  or  must  I  there 
perish,  and  perhaps  somebody  hereafter  find  my 
bones,  and  come  and  back  them  out  for  a  skeleton  ! 
I  looked  into  the  utter  darkness  of  the  place,  and 
more  than  once  asked,  mentally,  if  there  was  any 
possibility  that  the  spirit  of  the  dead  man  would  come 
back  and  upbraid  me  with  robbing  his  grave  ?  I  felt 
my  bullet-pouch,  and  found  I  had  just  seven  balls  ; 
these  I  thought  I  might  cut  in  two  pieces,  and  thus 
give  me  a  chance  of  fourteen  shots  for  food.  But 
that  long  night  was  invaluable  to  me.  I  reviewed 
my  life,  and  examined  the  object  for  which  I  had 
lived.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  truly  and  sin- 
cerely prayed.  I  made  vows  to  God,  if  he  would 
conduct  me  out  alive,  and  laid  plans  for  my  future 
life,  and  laid  down  the  principles  on  which  I  would 
act.  All  my  success  and  character  are  to  be  traced 
back  to  that  lonely  night.  In  the  morning,  without 
having  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep,  faint  and  hungry,  I 
set  off  again,  though  with  feeble  courage.  How  in- 
tensely burdensome  was  my  pack  and  my  rifle  now ! 
About  noon  I  came  to  a  lofty  mountain,  and  after 
panting  and  resting  many  times,  I  reached  its  sum- 
mit. Then  a  world  of  forest  lay  spread  out  before 
me,  and  many  a  beautiful  lake  too,  looking  in  its 
green  fringe  like  a  basin  of  silver.  After  a  long 
time  in  settling  the  geography,  I  decided  which  must 
be  Tupper's  Lake,  and  though  I  could  not  see  the 
thread  of  the  Rachette  River,  yet  I  knew  it  must  lie 
west  of  it,  and  that  the  falls  must  be  about  so  and 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  187 

so.  Then  came  hope  and  whispered  to  me,  and  I 
felt  strong  and  revived.  That  night  I  got  so  near  as 
to  hear  the  roar  of  the  falls,  and  the  next  day  I 
reached  my  boat.  I  then  killed  a  deer,  ate  with  a 
relish  which  I  remember  to  this  day,  and  in  a  few 
days  more  was  out  of  the  woods,  and  my  treasure 
with  me.  I  dared  not  show  it  even  to  the  old  Doc- 
tor ;  but  how  I  gloated  over  those  bones !  studied 
them  !  strung  them !  They  were  the  beginning  of 
my  professional  knowledge,  and  were  worth  to  me  a 
thousand-fold  more  than  their  cost. 

I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  Doctor's  office  one  day, 
when  who  should  come  waddling  up  to  the  door  but 
"  Aunt  Becky  "  Gorhom,  as  every  body  called  her. 
She  was  the  shortest  person  for  her  size  and  weight 
I  ever  saw,  —  a  poor  woman  who  lived  and  laid  up 
money  on  twenty  dollars  a  year  and  her  board,  — 
one  who  had  no  enemies,  and  not  character  enough 
to  have  very  warm  friends.  She  had  a  very  good 
opinion  of  herself  in  all  respects,  and  there  was 
something  so  irresistibly  ludicrous  in  her  round,  un- 
meaning face  and  masculine  voice,  one  could  hardly 
keep  from  laughing  whenever  she  appeared.  As 
she  rolled  into  the  door,  I  knew  that  something  was 
out  of  sorts. 

"  Is  the  old  Doctor  at  hum  ?  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Gorhom.     Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you  ?  " 

"  Why  I  've  got  the  toothache  most  despitly. 
Where  is  the  Doctor  ?  " 

"  Gone  out  of  town.  But  I  think  I  can  take  out 
your  tooth  for  you." 


188  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

"  You  !  "  and  her  face  actually  expressed  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  you  don't  know  nothing  about  it !  Never 
pulled  a  tooth  in  your  life." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mrs.  Gorhom,  I  have  pulled 
several  this  very  day." 

(I  had  been  pulling  the  teeth  out  of  the  skeleton, 
and  putting  them  back  again.) 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  " 

"  I  do  say  so.  Suppose  you  just  let  me  look  at 
your  tooth." 

She  opened  her  mouth,  and  there  it  was,  —  a  huge 
double  tooth,  just  such  a  tooth  as  I  wanted  to  begin 
with.  It  was  much  decayed.  But  she  would  not  let 
me  touch  it. 

"  Mister,  can't  you  put  something  in  it,  —  some 
of  your  stuff?  " 

I  bethought  myself,  and  could  hardly  conceal  a 
smile  as  I  crowded  in  a  neat  piece  of  saltpetre  ! 
She  shut  her  mouth,  and,  fearing  lest  she  must  have 
something  to  pay,  left  at  once.  It  was  just  as  I  ex- 
pected. In  five  minutes  she  came  back,  holding  her 
head  with  both  hands,  and  exclaiming,  "  Why, 
what  on  earth  did  you  put  into  it,  young  man  ?  " 

"  Nitrate  of  potassa,  madam,  nothing  else,  I  as- 
sure you." 

«  Well,  —  O  dear  !  dear !  you  have  killed  me  ! 
Do  get  it  out !  " 

Once  more  she  opened  her  mouth,  and  the  turn- 
key which  I  had  concealed  in  my  sleeve  was  on  it, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  189 

and  in  one  instant  the  tooth  flew  across  the  room. 
She  gave  a  yell  of  pain  and  indignation. 

"  Why,  you  pesky  fellow,  I  told  you  to  take  out 
that  stuff,  that  niter  of  potato,  as  you  called  it." 

"  Well,  I  have  taken  it  out." 

"  Yes,  and  the  tooth  too,  and  mayhap  ruined  my 
jaw  for  ever." 

"  Not  at  all.     You  will  find  all  safe." 

She  then  washed  her  mouth,  found  her  jaws  all 
right,  and  a  smile  lit  up  her  face  as  she  left,  and 
said,-— 

"  Really,  Doctor,  you  've  done  the  work  as  well 
as  the  old  doctor,  only  I  don't  like  to  have  things 
done  so  quick.  Thank  the  Lord,  though,  that  the 
thing  is  out !  " 

What  an  hour  was  that !  I  had  pulled  my  first 
tooth,  and  had  been  called  "  Doctor  "  !  My  con- 
science smote  me  for  the  deception  I  had  practised, 
and  I  felt  that  I  had  violated  one  of  the  principles 
agreed  upon  in  the  dark  night  in  the  forest. 

There  were  no  diplomas,  no  being  made  doctor  by 
a  vote  of  half  a  dozen  men.  It  took  the  whole  com- 
munity to  make  a  doctor  in  those  days.  But  I  was 
sure  I  had  now  received  my  doctorate.  And  sure 
enough,  after  that,  people  taller  than  Aunt  "Becky  " 
began  to  call  me  doctor,  or  "  the  young  doctor." 

I  now  left  my  old  teacher,  and  sought  where  I 
might  set  up  for  myself,  though  every  day  satisfied 
me  that  I  was  poorly  prepared  to  have  human  lives 
committed  to  me.  I  read  every  thing  on  medicine 
and  disease  which  I  could  obtain,  and  questioned 


190  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

every  doctor,  and  even  every  old  nurse,  I  could  light 
upon.  Some  shook  their  heads  at  my  questions,  and 
hinted  at  the  danger  of  experimenting  and  tampering 
with  human  life,  of  being  rash,  and  the  like.  Others 
tried  to  persuade  me  that  the  whole  of  medical  prac- 
tice consisted  in  being  able  to  cleanse  the  bowels  and 
empty  the  stomach,  and  let  Nature  have  the  oppor- 
tunity to  do  her  own  cures.  In  vain  did  I  procure 
vials  and  saddle-bags,  open  an  office,  hang  out  my 
sign,  "  Dr.  Asher,"  and  advertise,  "  To  be  seen  at 
the  office  at  all  hours."  The  last  was  literally  true, 
for  nobody  called  me  away,  or  came  there  to  con- 
sult me.  At  the  end  of  three  long  months,  during 
which  I  was  invited  out  to  tea  twice,  but  without 
having  had  my  first  patient,  an  uncle  of  mine  pro- 
posed to  send  me  up  to  the  head-waters  and  sources 
of  the  Hudson,  to  examine  a  township  of  land  which 
he  had  been  purchasing.  So  I  advertised  "  that  Dr. 
Asher,  being  called  away  by  urgent  business,  would 
close  his  office  during  his  unavoidable  absence,  which 
would  be  as  short  as  possible."  My  directions  were 
to  follow  the  Hudson  up  as  far  as  Indian  River,  then 
go  up  to  Indian  Lake,  take  Elijah,  or  "  Lige,"  (the 
Indian,)  as  he  was  called,  as  a  guide,  and  go  over 
to  Rock  Lake,  where  the  land  was  to  be  found. 
After  various  mishaps,  I  found  "  Lige,"  a  noble  fel- 
low, but  then  his  canoe  must  be  puccoed  (made  tight 
with  pitch),  and  then  I  must  wait  another  day  for 
him  to  go  down  to  M'Elroy's  to  get  his  trousers. 
M'Elroy  was  a  squatter  on  the  Indian  River,  and  the 
only  man  who  lived  in  that  township.  All  day,  till 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  191 

three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  waited  for  my  guide, 
but  he  came  not.  After  trying  to  sleep,  to  "  whit- 
tle," to  whistle,  and  be  patient,  I  determined  to  go 
after  my  Indian.  Following  the  blazed  trees  through 
thick  woods  for  a  mile  or  more,  I  came  to  the  log- 
cabin.  At  the  door  I  met  my  friend  "  Lige,"  as 
pale  as  a  sheet.  I  had  no  idea  that  an  Indian  could 
look  so  white. 

"  Why,  Elijah,  what 's  the  matter  ?  Have  you 
got  lost  ?  " 

Turning  round,  and  mysteriously  pointing  to  the 
cabin,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Woman  there,  —  he 
sick,  —  he  very  sick  !  " 

"  Ah  !  what  is  the  matter  with  her  ?  " 

"  Me  don't  know.  He  very  sick.  He  see  angel, 
see  God,  see  Devil !  He's  eyes  look  so,  me  'fraid ! 
He's  teeth  bite  so  !  He  point  so  !  " 

On  entering  the  log-house,  I  found  a  woman  lying 
on  a  very  rude  bed,  with  an  idiot  son  on  one  side  of 
the  room  holding  up  a  sore  foot,  and  the  husband 
standing  over  the  woman  with  a  kind  of  howl  con- 
tinually poured  out  of  his  mouth.  The  woman  was 
rolling  her  eyes,  gnashing  her  teeth,  pointing  up- 
ward, screeching,  and  shuddering.  She  trembled 
all  over,  and  was  apparently  on  the  point  of  convul- 
sions. The  husband  was  nearly  intoxicated,  and 
kept  howling,  "  Oh  !  och !  what  will  I  do  ?  Poor 
wife,  you  '11  die,  —  you  '11  certainly  die,  and  oh ! 
och !  what  will  I  do  ?  "  The  woman  was  seeing 
snakes,  angels,  devils,  and  I  know  not  what  besides. 
I  stepped  back  and  beckoned  the  Indian. 


192  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Elijah,  does  this  woman  drink  ?  " 

"  No,  he  never  drink.  Man  drink  so  as  horse. 
Woman  never  drink. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  he  never  drink.     He  good  woman." 

Once  more  I  rushed  into  the  house  again  and  said, 
"  Stand  back,  and  be  still,  Mr.  M'Elroy.  Let  me 
see  her.  I  hope  I  can  do  her  good." 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  he,  fiercely. 

"  O,  don't  you  know  ?  I  am  Dr.  Asher,  from 
Massachusetts." 

I  had  on  a  red-flannel  shirt  without  any  collar, 
wood-pants,  and  boots,  and  looked  like  any  thing 
rather  than  a  doctor. 

"  O,  my  dear,  my  dear  !  "  shouted  he,  "  here  's 
the  great  Dr.  Asher  from  New  York !  the  great  Dr. 
Asher  !  An  angel  of  mercy  from  heaven,  and  the 
great  brazen  serpent  in  the  wilderness,  my  dear ! 
He  '11  cure  you  !  Oh !  och !  the  great  brazen  ser- 
pent !  " 

Bidding  the  fool  to  hold  his  tongue,  I  next  sum- 
moned all  my  little  medical  knowledge  to  bear  upon 
the  agnosis  of  my  patient's  disease,  and  soon  satis- 
fied myself  that  it  was  a  violent  case  of  hysteria, 
brought  on  by  hard  labor  and  severe  exposure. 
Rummaging  between  the  logs,  what  was  my  joy  to 
find  a  paper  containing  a  lump  of  assafoetida  !  I 
made  up  several  pills,  and  dropped  one  into  the 
snapping  jaws  of  the  woman  every  few  minutes. 
The  discovery  of  this  medicine  satisfied  me  that  it 
would  not  have  been  in  that  peculiar  place  unless 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  193 

she  had  been  in  somewhat  similar  condition  before. 
Before  I  got  there,  she  had  complained  of  burning 
up,  and  they  had  dashed  a  pail  of  cold  water  over 
her.  Then  she  had  complained  of  freezing,  and 
they  had  a  fire  large  enough  to  roast  an  ox.  In 
further  searching,  I  found  a  bundle  of  valerian,  which 
she  had  gathered  in  the  woods,  and,  making  a  strong 
decoction  of  it,  I  induced  her  to  drink  now  and  then 
a  swallow.  In  about  two  hours  she  was  quiet,  her 
senses  returned,  and  I  found  her  a  modest,  sensible, 
and  intelligent  woman.  The  violent  symptoms  were 
gone  and  returned  no  more.  I  then  prescribed  such 
poultices  for  the  poor  idiot's  foot  as  were  to  be  had. 
The  woman  recovered  in  two  days  so  as  to  leave 
her  bed.  Among  the  many  patients  I  have  since 
had,  and  among  the  heavy  fees  and  rich  gifts  which 
I  have  since  had  showered  upon  me,  I  have  never 
had  any  so  rich  as  were  the  thanks  of  that  poor 
woman  when  I  came  to  leave  her.  She  had  nothing 
to  offer  me  but  a  single  loaf  of  coarse  bread.  I 
took  a  piece  of  it  and  carried  it  with  me,  and  every 
time  I  took  it  out  of  my  provision-bag  I  blessed  God 
that  my  profession  was  one  of  mercy,  and  promised 
him  that,  if  ever  I  got  into  practice,  I  would  be  as 
faithful  to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich.  In  proportion  as 
I  have  been  faithful  to  this  vow,  I  have  been  pros- 
pered. I  felt  encouraged  too,  because  now  I  had 
had  my  first  patient  ! 

Having  accomplished  my  examination  of  timber, 

I  returned  to  my  uncle's,  and  held  a  consultation  as 

to  what  was  next  to  be  done.     "  The  difficulty,"  said 

t     17 


194  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

he,  "  is  in  getting  the  first  patient.  When  a  young 
physician  has  once  accomplished  that,  he  is  in  a  fair 
way  to  gain  practice."  I  told  him  that  I  was  safe, 
then,  for  I  had  had  my  first  patient,  and  related  the 
circumstances  as  above.  The  old  gentleman  shook 
his  head.  "  That  would  have  done  admirably  had  it 
been  in  your  village,  where  it  could  be  known  and 
wondered  over;  but  now  nobody  but  your  Indian 
friend  can  marvel  over  it.  You  must  try  again ;  and 
in  order  to  aid  you,  I  will  lend  you  my  colt,  Lebo, 
and  my  sulky.  You  must  go  back  to  your  home 
where  your  office  is,  and  you  must  rattle  boxes,  jin- 
gle vials,  and  every  morning  you  must  get  out  Lebo, 
and  drive  through  the  village  as  if  life  and  death 
hung  on  your  Speed,  and  by  and  by  you  will  be  in 
demand,  as  well  as  appear  to  be.  Depend  upon  it, 
nephew,  the  world  does  not  think  or  judge  for  itself, 
and  the  article  that  is  in  demand,  be  it  what  it  may, 
is  the  article  that  all  seek  after.  The  certain  and 
sure  way  to  make  your  fortune  would  be  to  get  up 
some  quack  pills  made  of  aloes,  flour,  and  molasses ; 
but  I  trust  you  have  too  much  self-respect  and  too 
much  principle  to  swindle  the  public  out  of  money, 
for  which  you  render  no  equivalent.  I  see  no  dif- 
ference myself  between  putting  off  money,  or  flour, 
or  medicine,  that  is  worthless,  —  unless  it  be  that  the 
last  is  the  most  cruel,  as  it  raises  hopes  to  be  dashed, 
and  probably  prevents  the  use  of  means  that  might 
be  useful  in  restoring  health.  Never  do  that.  But 
this  riding  out,  —  why,  it  will  do  Lebo  good  to  exer- 
cise, and  you  good  to  ride,  and  I  don't  see  as  it  can 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  195 

be  wrong,  and  yet,"  shaking  his  head,  "  I  confess  I 
don't  quite  like  the  looks  of  it." 

Promising  to  follow  his  advice  as  far  as  I  could, 
without  compromising  principle,  I  accepted  the  horse 
and  sulky,  and  once  more  announced  to  the  public 
that  I  had  returned,  and  would  be  most  happy  to 
wait  upon  the  good  public.  Still  I  was  "  the  young 
doctor,"  and  nobody  gave  me  patronage.  Some 
were  afraid  of  new  doctors,  some  were  afraid  of 
young  doctors,  some  wanted  the  doctor  to  be  a  mar- 
ried man,  and  some  hated  to  leave  "  an  old  road  for 
a  new  one."  In  vain  did  I  open  door  and  windows, 
and  show  vials,  and  let  the  noise  of  my  pestle  and 
mortar  ring  early  and  late ;  in  vain  I  harnessed  Lebo 
and  drove  out  in  different  directions.  No  patients 
were  offered.  At  length,  when  I  had  become  much 
discouraged,  as  I  brought  out  my  horse  one  morning, 
I  saw  Ned  Lundy  bring  out  his,  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel  immediately  opposite.  I  know  not  how  it  was, 
but  I  suspected  there  must  be  mischief  in  the  fellow. 
But  what  could  I  do  ?  My  patients  (imaginary  ones) 
must  be  visited  punctually.  So  I  pounded  with  my 
pestle  and  mortar  a  few  moments,  took  up  my  sad- 
dle-bags, hung  out  on  the  door  "  To  return  soon," 
mounted  my  sulky,  and  drove  off  at  a  furious  rate. 
In  a  few  moments  I  looked  back,  and  there  was  Ned 
Lundy  behind  me,  with  a  half- roguish  smile  on  his 
face.  I  reined  up  to  let  him  pass,  but  no,  he  would 
not  go  past.  I  drove  Lebo  to  the  top  of  his  speed, 
but  there  Ned  was  behind  me  in  my  wake,  evidently 
determined  to  follow  me,  and  to  show  up  all  my 


196  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

riding  and  diligence  to  be  mere  put  on !  How  I  per- 
spired and  almost  groaned  as  the  fellow  stuck  to  me 
as  a  bur  !  At  length  I  turned  suddenly  down  Rain- 
bow Lane,  and  drove  as  fast  as  I  could.  In  vain,  — 
Ned  was  a  fixture.  Being  assured  that  he  would 
make  me  the  laughing-stock  of  the  village,  I  was 
planning  what  to  do,  when  I  noticed  Farmer  Fitch  at 
a  distance  before  me  mowing.  As  my  eye  fell  on 
him,  I  noticed  that  he  faltered  and  fell.  By  the  time 
I  got  opposite  him  I  heard  a  groan !  In  a  moment 
my  reeking  Lebo  stopped,  and  I  was  lifting  Farmer 
Fitch  up  from  the  ground,  and  calling  Ned  Lundy  to 
come  to  my  aid.  The  farmer  was  bleeding  like  an 
ox,  for  he  was  terribly  cut  with  his  scythe,  and  was 
fainting.  How  I  staunched  the  blood,  bound  up  his 
wound,  carried  him  home,  attended  him  during  his 
confinement,  and,  as  he  said,  "  saved  his  life  "  !  No 
matter ;  Ned  did  not  get  the  laugh  on  me.  I  ob- 
tained a  second  and  a  valuable^,  patient,  and  felt  en- 
couraged. 

But  my  third  patient !  Ah  !  "  thereby  hangs  a 
tale !  "  My  third  patient !  That  was  the  turning 
point  in  my  life  !  That  is  yet  to  be  told. 


• 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  197 


PART   II. 

I  HAD  made  up  my  mind  to  live  and  die  poor. 
There  were  nostrums,  indeed,  on  which  I  might  have 
ridden  into  notice,  and  I  knew  that,  with  aloes,  colo- 
cynth,  and  calomel,  I  could  make  pills  by  the  barrel, 
and  promise  that  they  would  cure  all  the  diseases 
that  ever  afflicted  humanity,  and  I  could  roll  up  a 
fortune  by  lying  daily  about  plasters  and  lozenges ; 
but  from  my  soul  I  abominated  all  empiricism,  and 
resolved  that  I  would  be  honorable  in  my  profession, 
or  I  would  starve.  My  third  patient  had  not  yet 
called  for  me.  Full  of  manly  resolutions  to  do  right 
and  honorably,  I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  a 
feeling  of  jealousy  when  I  saw  carriages  loaded  with 
people  go  past  my  office,  and  call  "  Dr.  Bradis,  the 
celebrated  Indian  doctor."  I  knew  the  charlatan 
could  hardly  read  or  write,  knew  nothing  about  the 
human  system,  and  next  to  nothing  about  diseases. 
Yet,  with  his  impudence  and  cool  boasting,  he  had  no 
lack  of  patients.  How  people  love  to  be  imposed 
upon !  At  length,  when  my  hopes  began  to  sink, 
on  returning  home  one  evening  from  my  solitary 
office,  — for  home  I  called  my  boarding-place,  —  I 
found  a  short  note,  written  in  a  neat,  delicate,  and  I 
thought  trembling  hand,  intimating  that  "  Miss  Lucy 
Braisley  desired  to  consult  Dr.  Asher  professionally 
and  confidentially,  this  evening  or  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, as  will  best  suit  his  convenience."  It  was  too 
late  to  go  that  night,  especially  as,  having  seen  Miss 


198  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

Braisley  walking  out  just  at  sunset,  I  knew  she  could 
not  be  very  sick  herself.  How  I  lay  that  night,  half 
sleeping  and  half  waking,  and  forming  all  manner 
of  conjectures  as  to  the  nature  of  the  consultation 
desired  !  But  who  was  Lucy  Braisley  ?  This  I  did 
not  know,  except  that  she  was  a  beautiful  stranger 
to  whom  I  had  been  introduced,  who  had  come  to 
spend  a  few  months  in  our  village  with  a  distant  rela- 
tive. She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  was  an 
orphan,  understood  to  be  poor,  though  once  in  great 
affluence,  and  beautiful  she  certainly  was,  as  every 
beholder  testified.  By  some  means  or  other,  I  had 
got  into  the  good  graces  of  her  relative,  and  suspect- 
ed that  it  was  to  her  influence  that  I  was  indebted  for 
my  call.  Had  the  young  stranger  the  first  "  slight 
cough,"  and  the  first  "  hectic  flush,"  which  are  such 
sure  heralds  of  that  awful  destroyer,  —  the  consump- 
tion ?  I  resolved  that  never  should  patient  be  treated 
more  carefully.  Had  she  some  chronic  disease,  hid- 
den, but  sure  to  make  war  upon  the  system  till  it  had 
destroyed  it  ?  I  would  leave  no  efforts  unmade,  by 
which  to  dislodge  the  foe.  Long  before  morning  I 
had  imagined  and  treated  a  score  of  diseases  in  my 
new  and  fair  patient.  I  even  rose  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  and  read  what  books  I  had  on  "  Scrofula," 
"  Phthisisj"  and  "  Spine."  Nor  need  I  feel  ashamed 
to  own  th$t  I  brushed  my  boots,  coat,  hat,  and  hair 
with  at  least  common  care,  and  drew  on  my  best 
gloves  at  an  early  hour.  On  my  way  I  studied  what 
might  be  the  golden  medium  between  the  cheerful, 
buoyant  look  with  which  a  physician  wants  to  en- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  199 

courage  his  patient,  and  that  long  face  of  sympathy 
which  he  wishes  to  put  on  to  show  that  he  has  deep 
sympathies,  and  feels  the  responsibilities  of  his  posi- 
tion. I  am  inclined  to  think  the  latter  predominated, 
for  on  my  saying  to  the  young  lady  that  I  hoped  she 
was  not  seriously  ill,  she  burst  into  a  laugh,  and  said 
she  was  never  in  better  health  in  her  life.  I  threw 
myself  at  once  upon  my  dignity,  and  said  that,  as 
she  had  done  me  the  honor  to  intimate  that  she 
wished  to  consult  me  professionally,  and  as  she 
was  in  such  perfect  health,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
how  I  could  assist  her.  She  dismissed  her  looks  and 
tones  of  levity  at  once,  and  gave  me  to  understand 
that  she  wanted  my  assistance  in  behalf  of  an  uncle, 
a  rich  merchant,  who  was  at  that  very  moment  con- 
fined in  chains,  —  a  madman  ! 

"  We  have  consulted  many  distinguished  physi- 
cians, sir,  but  they  give  us  no  hope  of  his  recovery. 
He  is  so  violent  that  he  has  to  be  chained  day  and 
night,  and  is  especially  outrageous  when  I  come  in- 
to his  presence.  My  aunt,  his  wife,  received  a  ter- 
rible shock  on  hearing  my  uncle  return  from  Europe, 
where  he  went  on  business,  raving  in  madness,  and 
she  is  now  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  She  had  heard 
of  you  through  the  praises  of  a  backwoodsman, 
whose  wife  he  says  you  cured  of  a  '  fit  of  ravin' 
distraction  in  less  than  no  time ' !  Is  that  so  ?  I 
was  commissioned  by  my  aunt  to  come  to  this  vil- 
lage, and,  if  your  character  stood  as  she  hoped  it 
would,  to  see  if  we  could  not  get  you  to  take  my 
uncle  under  your  special  charge,  with  the  hope  that 


200  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

he  may  be  restored  to  reason  ;  but  if  this  may  not 
be,  that  he  may  be  made  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
I  have  been  reading  some  French  writers  on  Insanity, 
and  I  have  acquired  some  new  thought  in  relation  to 
it.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  read  them  ?  If  so, 
they  are  at  your  service."  She  pointed  me  to  at 
least  a  dozen  volumes,  which,  by  their  binding,  I 
knew  must  be  French.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  could 
read  French  but  very  imperfectly,  —  next  to  noth- 
ing, —  and  I  longed  to  get  at  the  thoughts  and  views 
in  those  volumes,  and  yet  I  dared  neither  to  say  that 
I  could  or  could  not  read  French.  I  believe  my  face 
must  have  shown  a  troubled  expression,  for  she  said 
in  a  kind  voice,  "  Doctor,  perhaps  you  would  like  to 
think  of  our  proposition  a  few  days,  and  in  the  mean 
time  I  will  send  over  the  volumes,  and  you  can  dip 
into  them  or  not  as  you  can  command  leisure." 

It  appeared  in  evidence,  as  the  lawyers  say,  that 
the  history  of  her  uncle's  madness  was  as  follows. 
At  a  very  early  age  the  two  brothers,  James  and 
John  Braisley,  left  their  home  among  the  hills  to  try 
their  fortunes  in  the  city ;  they  were  apprenticed  to 
the  same  mercantile  house,  and  served  their  time  to- 
gether. It  was  soon  found  that  James  was  the  boy 
for  a  bargain.  If  a  forced  sale  was  at  hand,  he 
knew  it,  and  apprised  his  employers  accordingly. 
If  a  lot  of  goods  none  the  choicest  came  in,  James 
would  contrive  to  sell  them  without  delay.  On  one 
occasion  a  large  lot  of  molasses  was  to  be  sold  on 
the  wharf.  When  the  first  hogshead  was  put  up, 
with  the  privilege  of  taking  "  one  or  the  whole,"  it 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  201 

was  observed  that  a  carman,  with  his  face  dirty,  and 
in  his  well-soiled  frock,  and  a  whip  in  his  hand,  was 
very  eager  to  bid.  He  did  not  hang  back  and  tiy  to 
appear  indifferent  as  the  merchants  did.  He  was 
prompt,  and  the  merchants,  concluding  that  the  poor 
fellow  had  contrived  to  scrape  money  enough  to- 
gether to  buy  "  a  whole  hogshead,"  did  not  bid 
against  him.  Down  came  the  hammer  of  the  auc- 
tioneer, and,  "  Well,  carman,  how  many  will  you 
take  ?  "  "  I  '11  take  the  whole."  "  The  whole  ! 
who  will  be  responsible  for  you  ?  "  "  Griffin  and 
Lang."  The  auctioneers  and  the  owners  raved,  but 
there  was  no  help,  and  James  Braisley,  in  the  car- 
man's dress,  had  made  two  thousand  dollars  for 
Griffin  and  Lang,  by  that  stroke.  Griffin  and  Lang 
pocketed  the  money,  praised  James  for  his  shrewd- 
ness, and  promoted  him  in  their  store.  On  another 
occasion,  being  sent  to  the  office  of  the  commissary 
of  the  navy  on  some  errand,  and  while  the  officer 
was  out,  he  took  the  liberty  to  peep  into  his  papers. 
Among  them  he  found  an  advertisement  soon  to  be 
printed,  inviting  proposals  for  a  large  quantity  of 
vinegar  for  the  navy,  to  be  delivered  at  an  early 
date.  What  does  the  fellow  do,  but  whip  round  to 
all  the  vinegar-dealers  in  the  city,  and  engage  so 
much  of  their  stock  as  to  render  it  impossible  for 
them  to  throw  in  proposals.  The  result  was,  that 
Griffin  and  Lang,  at  an  enormous  advance,  fur- 
nished the  vinegar,  and  made  it  a  veiy  profitable 
job.  On  the  contrary,  John  was  so  open,  fair,  and 
guileless,  that,  though  every  body  liked  him  and  re- 


202  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

spected  him,  yet  he  was  not  allowed  to  do  much  of 
the  buying  or  selling.  He  was  kept  at  the  books  of 
the  concern,  and  they  were  well  kept. 

In  process  of  time,  the  two  brothers  had  com- 
pleted their  appi'enticeship,  and  commenced  business 
for  themselves  under  the  firm  of  J.  &  J.  Braisley. 
James  brought  into  it  all  the  cunning  and  overreach- 
ing policy  which  had  been  called  shrewdness  and  sa- 
gacity ;  and  John,  that  accuracy  in  accounts,  and  that 
urbanity  of  manners,  which  gave  the  firm  great  pop- 
ularity and  respectability.  It  came  to  pass,  too,  that 
they  accumulated  property,  and  became  rich,  and 
they  were  caressed.  Inspiration  hath  testified  that 
"  men  will  praise  thee  when  thou  doest  well  for  thy- 
self." After  many  years  of  successful  business,  at  the 
desire  of  James,  the  firm  separated.  It  was  said  that 
John  was  greatly  grieved  by  the  movement,  but  had  to 
yield  to  the  strong  will  of  James.  After  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  firm  they  both  continued  in  business.  At 
length  the  business  of  John  led  him  to  a  distant  part 
of  the  continent.  There  he  was  taken  sick,  and  there 
he  died.  His  wife  was  just  leaving  the  world  when 
the  news  came,  and  it  hastened  her  departure. 
Their  only  child  was  the  orphan  Lucy,  in  whose 
presence  I  was  now  sitting,  and  learning  these  par- 
ticulars. On  the  death  of  John,  James  hastened  to 
the  place  where  he  died,  and,  much  to  his  amaze- 
ment and  horror,  found  the  estate  of  John  so  in- 
volved in  a  complication  of  speculations,  that  he  was 
a  bankrupt,  and  not  a  farthing  was  saved  from  the 
wreck.  He  came  back  not  a  little  depressed  in 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  203 

spirits,  and  taking  the  death  of  his  brother  harder 
than  any  body  supposed  he  could.  Indeed,  he  never 
seemed  to  be  the  same  man  afterwards.  But  every 
body  admired  and  praised  his  conduct  towards  his 
orphan  niece.  He  soothed  her,  and  took  her  to  his 
own  house,  and  assured  her  that  she  should  never 
want.  She  had  never  known  the  want  of  money, 
and  the  loss  of  her  property  made  no  impression 
upon  her.  It  was  for  her  parents  and  the  endear- 
ments of  childhood's  home  that  she  mourned.  With 
her  uncle  she  lived.  His  own  children  were  sons, 
who  promised  to  spend  all  the  estate  which  he  might 
accumulate.  Gradually,  however,  his  feelings  to- 
wards Lucy  seemed  to  undergo  a  change.  He 
seemed  to  grow  cool,  then  distant,  moody,  and 
finally  it  was  plain  that  her  society  was  irksome  to 
him.  About  two  years  after  the  death  of  his  brother 
he  was  called  to  go  to  Europe.  While  absent,  cot- 
ton rose  at  once,  and  the  whole  world  seemed  mad 
with  the  cotton  speculation.  James  Braisley  wrote 
home  to  his  agents  to  buy,  buy,  —  buy  all  they 
could.  Letters  came  fast  and  urgent,  all  urging 
buy,  buy.  Soon  the  bubble  burst,  and  thousands 
were  wrecked.  Just  as  it  burst,  James  was  leaving 
England  for  home.  Then  he  began  to  figure  up 
how  many  orders  he  had  written,  how  many  bales 
had  been  purchased,  how  much  he  had  lost  on  each, 
till  he  saw  that  he  was  a  bankrupt,  and  ruined.  The 
fact  was,  the  bubble  burst  here  so  early  that  his 
agents  had  not  obeyed  his  orders.  Money  had  been 
his  idol.  He  had  lived  for  nothing  else,  and  now  his 


2C4  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

gods  had  been  taken  away,  as  he  supposed,  and  what 
had  he  left  ?  He  figured  and  computed  till  he  be- 
came wild,  frantic,  and  deranged,  and  had  to  be 
brought  home  in  irons.  When  he  reached  his  home 
he  did  not  know  his  own  wife,  but  seemed  to  recog- 
nize Lucy,  so  far  as  to  shudder,  and  howl,  and 
screech  at  her  presence.  He  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  her  person. 

Such,  in  substance,  was  the  story  which  the  poor 
girl  told  me  with  many  tears.  For  my  part,  I  could 
not  see  any  thing  in  the  young  lady  that  should  make 
even  a  madman  hate  her.  It  was  evident  that  she 
loved  him  much,  and  was  very  grateful  to  him  for 
his  great  kindness  in  giving  her  a  home. 

On  taking  leave,  I  loaded  my  arms  with  the 
French  books,  assured  Miss  Lucy  of  my  deep  in- 
terest in  the  case,  and  promised  to  consider  the  sub- 
ject, and  let  her  know  my  decision  in  a  few  days. 
How  I  hastened  to  my  office,  and  borrowed  a  French 
grammar  and  dictionary,  and  pored  over  the  books 
day  and  night,  I  need  not  say.  Never  did  a  poor 
fellow  study  harder  to  acquire  the  language,  to  mas- 
ter the  contents  of  the  volumes,  and  to  acquire  in- 
formation, than  I  did  during  the  three  weeks  that 
followed.  By  the  end  of  that  time  I  was  master  of 
what  seemed  to  be  locked  up  in  an  unknown  tongue. 
My  reader  will  bear  in  mind,  that  half  a  century  ago 
the  whole  treatment  of  the  insane  was  to  bear  with 
them  if  they  were  gentle,  and  to  chain  them,  put 
them  in  cages  and  dungeons,  and  treat  them  like 
wild  beasts,  if  they  were  wild  and  frenzied.  The 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  205 

hope  or  the  thought  of  curing  a  deranged  person  was 
not  dreamed  of.  But  I  now  got  a  new  idea  in  my 
head,  and  the  very  experiment  caused  my  heart  to 
exult  with  excitement.  At  the  end  of  three  weeks  I 
called  on  Miss  Lucy,  and  intimated  that  I  would  un- 
dertake the  case  of  her  uncle,  aiming  at  a  cure,  on 
two  conditions  ;  namely,  that  I  should  have  no  one  to 
interfere  with  me,  I  being  allowed  to  manage  my  pa- 
tient in  my  own  way,  and  that  I  should  be  allowed 
to  charge  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year.  This  last 
item  seemed  to  stagger  the  niece  and  the  aunt,  but  I 
assured  them  that  it  would  cost  me  every  farthing 
of  that  sum  to  make  my  experiments,  without  any 
compensation  for  my  services.  He  was  immensely 
rich,  and  what  was  that  sum  in  comparison  with  the 
saving  of  the  man  ?  At  length  they  agreed  to  it  all, 
and  I  was  to  be  ready  to  receive  him  in  a  single 
week.  I  had  no  time  to  lose  in  making  prepara- 
tions. I  procured  a  small,  but  convenient  house, 
rather  retired,  with  a  large  garden.  I  next  procured 
two  strong,  handy,  patient  young  men,  who  were  to 
obey  my  orders  implicitly.  One  was  a  long-legged 
fellow,  and  the  other  small,  lithe,  and  quick  as  a 
cat.  I  next  hired  two  saddle-horses,  the  hardest-bit- 
ted and  the  hardest-trotting  creatures  I  could  pro- 
cure. Then  a  good,  faithful  housekeeper,  and  my 
accommodations  were  ready. 

At  the  time  appointed,  a  carriage  drove  up  to  my 
new  habitation,  and  two  men  got  out,  dragging  a 
large,  powerful  man,  cursing,  swearing,  and  resist- 
ing with  all  his  might.  I  kept  out  of  the  way  till 

13 


206  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  the  Doctor  "  was  sought  for  and  loudly  demanded. 
At  length  I  carelessly  went  into  the  room,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  the  keepers,  but  fixing  my  eye  on  the 
eye  of  the  maniac,  and  with  a  smile  gave_  him  my 
hand  with  great  politeness,  and  said,  — 
"  Mr.  Braisley,  I  believe  ?  " 
"  Who,  in  the  name  of  all  God's  lowest  creation, 
are  you  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Dr.  Asher,  at  your  service,"  still  keeping  my 
eye  on  his.  "  Dr.  Asher,  sir,  the  doctor  who  takes 
care  of  so  many  deranged  people." 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !  "  growled  my  patient.  But 
I  saw  that  he  gave  in  under  my  steady  gaze  very 
slightly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  's  my  sole  business,  and  I  cure 
them,  too." 

"  Cure  'em,  you  son  of  night  and  darkness  invisi- 
ble, you  imp  of  a  Jack-o'-lantern,  —  you  cure  'em, 
eh  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  I,  with  the  eye  fixed  sharply 
on  his,  and  with  the  most  imperturbable  gravity ; 
"  certainly,  sir,  I  never  had  a  deranged  or  insane 
patient  that  I  did  not  cure."  He  looked  puzzled  a 
moment,  and  then  broke  out  into  the  coarsest  invec- 
tives and  abuse.  I  took  no  notice  of  it,  but,  applying 
a  small  ivory  whistle  to  my  mouth,  I  blew  a  loud 
call,  and  my  two  men  appeared.  "  Fairlong,  show 
Mr.  Braisley  to  his  room.  Stay :  those  irons  on  his 
hands  must  be  uncomfortable.  Mr.  Braisley,  now 
on  your  honor  promise  me  that  you  will  be  gentle 
and  quiet,  and  we  will  take  off  those  irons,  and  you 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  207 

shall  be  free."  The  men  who  came  with  him  began 
to  remonstrate,  and  talked  about  him  just  as  they 
would  about  a  wild  animal  in  chains.  I  paid  no  at- 
tention to  them,  but  kept  looking  at  my  patient. 

"  I  say,  you  owl's  head  !  "  said  he. 

"  Dr.  Asher  is  my  name,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Brais- 
ley,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  then,  Asher,  Dasher,  Thrasher,  Smasher, 
whatever  you  be,  you  're  a  queer  one.  Why,  don't 
you  know  for  what  they  put  these  things  on  me, 
eh  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know,  when  no  one  ever  told  me  ? 
For  some  crime,  doubtless  ?  " 

"  You  may  well  say  that.  Why,  Doctor,  I  bought 
all  the  cotton  in  creation ;  I  have  stripped  the  coun- 
try of  clothing,  —  I  have  ruined  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  families,  widows,  orphans,  —  ay,  orphans  ! 
—  thousands  and  millions  of  orphans  !  —  no  wonder 
they  put  me  in  irons.  All  ruined,  starving,  ruined !  " 
And  horribly  did  he  gnash  his  teeth,  and  shake  his 
irons.  I  calmly  repeated  my  question,  "  Will  you 
be  quiet  and  gentle  if  I  '11  take  them  off  ?  " 

"  I  '11  try,  Doctor." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  irons  were  off,  he  stretched 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  lifted  up  his  arms, 
as  if  to  strike.  But.it  was  just  as  I  expected.  His 
arms  were  so  stiff  from  long  confinement,  and  felt 
so  strange,  that  he  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it. 
The  men  who  brought  him  hurried  out,  as  if  a  tiger 
had  been  unchained.  I  bade  my  men  show  him  his 
room,  and,  to  my  joy,  he  followed  mechanically.  I 


208  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

had  fitted  up  a  neat  room  for  him,  with  a  door  so 
strong  that  he  could  not  break  it,  and  with  iron  bars 
across  his  window  on  the  outside.  He  was  about 
fifty  years  old,  a  powerful  frame,  and  a  man  of  great 
muscular  strength.  He  evidently  tried  to  restrain 
himself  for  a  time,  and  to  keep  his  promise.  But  by 
night  he  was  howling,  screaming,  and  tearing  his 
clothes.  I  did  not  go  near  him  that  night,  though 
neither  he  nor  I  slept  much.  But  in  the  morning, 
what  a  sight !  He  had  torn  every  thing  in  the  shape 
of  clothing  into  the  smallest  shreds,  and  rubbed  the 
straw  in  his  bed  till  it  was  literally  powder.  Bed- 
clothes and  all  were  used  up,  and  there  the  creature 
was,  without  an  article  of  dress  of  any  kind.  I  went 
into  his  room  alone,  leaving  my  men  just  at  the  door, 
and  ready  to  jump  at  my  call. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Braisley,  I  hope  you  find  yourself 
well  this  morning,  after  a  comfortable  night's  rest. 
How  soundly  you  must  have  slept,  not  to  have  heard 
any  of  my  insane  patients." 

"  Why,  Doctor,"  still  panting  from  exertion,  "  I 
have  n't  slept  a  wink  all  night." 

"  Ah,  why  not  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  making  flour,  Doctor.  See  there,  — 
five  hundred  barrels  of  best  Baltimore,  Howard 
Street  brand,  all  ground  in  one  night!  What  say 
you  to  that,  Doctor  ?  "  And  he  came  up  and  began 
with  both  hands  to  rub  my  face. 

"  A  good  night's  work,  truly.  You  '11  pay  all  your 
debts  soon,  at  that  rate  !  " 

"  Debts,"  said  he,  with  a  start,  "  what  debts  ?  " 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  209 

"  Why,  the  families  you  told  me  you  had  ruined 
by  the  cotton  speculation." 

"  O,  yes  ;  you  know  about  that,  do  you  ?  Who 
told  you  ?  Well,  their  cries  and  groans  do  ring  in 
my  ears  day  and  night.  The  orphans  !  Oh,  the 
orphans  ! " 

I  now  left  him,  directing  my  men  to  dress  him, 
soothe  him,  and  prepare  him  for  breakfast.  To  my 
surprise,  he  made  no  objections  to  being  clothed,  or 
to  have  his  room  cleansed.  To  humor  him,  the  dirt 
was  put  into  a  clean  flour-barrel.  Just  before  his 
breakfast,  Fairlong  and  Stacy  presented  him  a  tum- 
bler, desiring  him  to  drink  it,  with  my  best  wishes 
for  his  health.  It  was  an  ounce  of  Epsom  salts  dis- 
solved in  water. 

"The  Doctor  wants  I  should  drink  that  stuff! 
The  Doctor  !  Tell  the  meaching,  cowardly,  igno- 
rant, rantum-scantum  scaliwag,  that  I  won't,  that 's 
all ! " 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  send  that  word  to  the 
Doctor,  do  you  ?  "  said  Stacy. 

"  Yes  I  do,  though." 

In  an  instant  Stacy  and  Fairlong  chucked  him 
down  in  a  chair,  hud  his  arms  and  body  lashed  in, 
his  mouth  open,  and  the  salts  down.  He  could  make 
no  resistance  ;  all  he  could  do  was  to  swallow.  He 
was  then  liberated,  much  humbled  at  the  victory, 
and  amazed  at  their  quickness.  At  the  breakfast 
table  I  had  him  with  me,  but  neither  of  us  made  any 
allusion  to  the  salts.  My  men  were  at  hand,  but  not 
in  sight.  I  treated  him,  not  as  an  insane  man,  but 
18* 


210  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

as  a  visiter.  He  was  very  talkative,  and  had  to  go 
over  all  his  story  of  having  ruined  so  many  thousands 
of  widows  and  orphans.  After  breakfast,  I  merely 
said,  "  Mr.  Braisley,  Fairlong  will  show  you  a  pleas- 
ant walk,  and  I  think  it  will  be  beneficial  for  your 
health  to  take  a  good  long  walk."  I  saw  by  the  flash 
of  his  eye  that  he  thought  he  could  now  run  away, 
and  the  proposal  was  received  with  glee.  To  Fair- 
long  my  instructions  were,  —  keep  in  sight  of  him, 
and  let  him  walk  or  run  to  his  heart's  content.  But 
don't  lose  sight  of  him.  Away  they  went,  Braisley 
half  running,  muttering  to  himself,  and  steering  right 
onward,  while  poor  Fairlong  had  need  of  all  his  legs, 
long  as  they  were,  to  keep  up  with  him.  On  they 
went,  walk,  —  walk,  —  walk,  —  five,  six,  eight,  and 
nine  miles  out.  There  seemed  to  be  no  tire  to  him. 
Suddenly  he  stopped,  and  waited  for  Fairlong  to 
come  up  with  him.  "  There,  now,  you  pill-smeller, 
what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Don't  you  wish  you  had 
a  pair  of  legs,  hey  ?  And  what  will  the  Doctor  say 
to  you,  to  drivel,  and  lag,  and  can't  keep  up  ?  " 

"  The  Doctor  will  never  believe  you  beat  me  in 
walking,  unless  he  sees  it  with  his  own  eyes." 

"  He  won't  ?  Well,  just  for  the  joke  of  it,  he 
shall  see  it."  And  greatly  to  the  delight  of  the 
weary  attendant,  he  wheeled  about  and  put  back 
again,  and  was  at  home  again  in  less  than  five  hours 
from  the  time  .he  left.  I  was  watching  anxiously  the 
result,  when  in  he  bounded,  apparently  fresh,  while 
Fairlong  came  limping  after  him,  hardly  able  to 
stand. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  211 

"  Doctor,  can't  you  send  somebody  with  me  next 
time  that  can  walk  some  ?  That  curmudgeon  has 
no  walk  in  him." 

I  did  not  fail  to  congratulate  him  on  having  beaten 
one  of  the  greatest  walkers  in  the  State.  "  But,  Mr. 
Braisley,  Stacy  will  show  you  a  warm  bath,  which 
you  will  have  just  time  to  take  before  dinner." 

That  night  he  actually  slept  quietly  more  than 
half  the  night,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  got  in  the  right 
path.  The  next  morning,  as  Fairlong  was  too  much 
used  up  to  walk,  I  directed  Stacy  to  bring  out  the 
two  horses  saddled,  to  tie  one,  and  leave  the  other 
with  the  bridle  carelessly  thrown  over  his  head,  and 
then  for  himself  to  be  rather  out  of  sight.  Presently 
I  came  walking  round  the  house  arm-in-arm  with  my 
patient,  and  as  we  came  near  the  horses,  I  said, 
"  Excuse  me  a  moment,  Mr.  Braisley,  I  must  get  an 
outside  garment  before  I  leave."  Scarcely  had  I 
turned  my  back  ere  he  was  in  the  saddle  of  the  loose 
horse,  and  clattering  out  of  the  yard,  —  the  very  trap 
that  I  had  set.  Stacy  mounted  the  other  horse  in- 
stantly and  was  after  him.  The  horse  on  which 
Braisley  had  mounted  could  by  no  matter  of  argu- 
ments be  made  to  canter,  and  his  trot  was  long,  and 
terribly  hard.  But  away  he  went,  and  Stacy,  in  an 
easy  gallop,  after  him.  After  he  had  ridden  about 
ten  miles,  he  began  to  sober  down.  Stacy  design- 
edly kept  back.  At  length  he  came  to  a  road  which 
seemed  to  run  parallel  with  his.  It  led  directly  back 
again,  though  not  quite  as  direct.  It  was  now  that 
Stacy  screamed  for  him  to  stop,  and  put  up  his  own 


212  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

horse.  But  the  fellow  got  it  into  his  head  that  he 
was  certainly  running  away,  and  that  Stacy  was  try- 
ing to  stop  him,  and  he  cheered,  and  kicked,  and 
made  his  horse  almost  break  his  hard  trot,  when, 
before  he  knew  where  he  was,  pop  !  the  horse  bolted 
directly  into  the  yard  whence  he  had  started.  1  was 
out  in  a  moment,  admiring  his  horsemanship,  and 
inwardly  laughing  at  his  evident  chagrin  and  fatigue. 

"  Doctor,  what 's  the  name  of  this  brute  ?  " 

"  Trip,  I  believe." 

"  Trip-Aammer,  you  mean  !  Why  I  had  rather 
ride  a  trip-hammer  all  day  than  mount  the  brute 
again  !  " 

"  I  believe  nobody  asked  you  to  ride  it,"  said  I, 
rather  drily. 

"  Stacy,"  said  he,  as  he  was  going  to  his  bath, 
"  do  horses,  and  roads,  and  men,  and  every  thing 
here,  do  just  as  the  Doctor  wants  to  have  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  every  thing,  except  his  patients,  —  they 
sometimes  try  to  run  away,  but  always  contrive  to 
fetch  up  here  again." 

By  kind  treatment,  daily  and  severe  exercise,  and 
the  cooling  draught  of  salts  on  alternate  days,  I 
thought  in  a  few  weeks  I  could  see  a  little  improve- 
ment in  my  patient.  Still  he  was  at  times  wild,  ex- 
cited, and  furious ;  but  we  could  make  him  swallow 
his  salts  without  confining,  and  take  exercise  at  my 
bidding.  But  he  harped  upon  his  crime  of  ruining 
so  many  families,  till  I  was  fairly  worn  down  with  it. 
One  morning  he  rushed  into  my  room  and  began  to 
mourn  and  lament  over  the  same  old  story,  when, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  213 

turning  round  suddenly  and  glaring  him  in  the  face, 
I  said,  "  Mr.  Braisley,  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  you 
are  the  greatest  villain  I  ever  met  with ! "  I  had 
heretofore  heard  him  with  great  urbanity,  and  even 
delicacy.  He  started,  as  if  stung  by  an  adder. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  think  you  the  great- 
est villain  that  ever  lived  !  " 

"Ah!  has.  Lucy  told  you,  —  the  minx!  What 
makes  you  say  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  from  your  own  lips.  You  tell  me  again 
and  again  that  you  have  ruined  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  families,  robbed  widows,  and  plundered  or- 
phans. Now  I  know  enough  of  mercantile  business 
to  know  that  nobody  could  do  all  this  mischief  with- 
out coolly  sitting  down  for  years  and  planning  and 
plotting  to  do  it.  You  must  have  been  years  in  thus 
planning  before  you  effected  your  object !  What 
am  I  to  think  of  such  villany  ?  " 

He  was  thunderstruck,  and  taken  all  aback?  He 
saw  that  my  conclusions  were  correctly  drawn  from 
the  premises,  and  the  premises  he  had  himself  fur- 
nished. He  merely  said,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  I 
protest,  Doctor,  I  never  was  so  bad  as  that ! " 

The  shock  was  beneficial.  He  never -mentioned 
his  supposed  crime  again.  But  my  task  was  no  easy 
one.  Sometimes  he  would  contrive  to  elude  our 
vigilance  unaccountably,  and  get  away.  I  remem- 
ber one  day,  Stacy  came  to  me  in  distress,  saying 
that  Mr.  Braisley  was  gone.  Stacy  had  slept  in  the 
room  with  him,  and,  having  locked  the  door,  placed 


214  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

the  key  under  his  pillow.  But  the  patient  watched 
him  till  sound  asleep  ;  then  he  crept  and  got  the  key, 
opened  the  door,  and  was  gone.  Our  search  was 
long  and  anxious,  looking  into  wells,  examining 
river-banks  and  cisterns,  till  at  length  we  heard 
him  singing !  We  found  him  in  a  tall  grove, 
perched  in  the  very  top  of  one  of  the  tallest  trees. 
We  tried  to  coax  and  flatter  him  down,  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. At  length  I  called  for  an  axe,  and  began  to 
cut  the  tree  down.  He  rubbed  his  hands  with  de- 
light :  "  That  's  it,  Doctor !  that  's  it !  Now  I  '11 
have  a  good  ride  !  " 

"  Mr.  Braisley,"  said  I,  resting  as  if  exhausted 
with  fatigue,  "  Mr.  Braisley,  I  always  thought  you 
were  a  gentleman  before  !  " 

"  And  why  ain't  I  now  ?  " 

"  Would  a  gentleman  sit  there  to  ride,  and  make 
me  cut  down  the  tree !  No,  he  would  come  down 
and  cut  it  down  himself." 

In  a  minute  he  was  down  and  pecking  away  at  the 
tree.  We  then  assured  him  that  the  axe  was  too 
dull,  and  that  dinner  would  wait  too  long,  —  and  thus 
we  got  him  home. 

He  had  been  with  me  about  eight  months,  grad- 
ually growing  calmer  and  better ;  but  there  was 
something  which  I  could  not  understand.  He  was 
moody,  solemn,  and  gloomy  during  the  day,  and 
restless  during  the  night.  He  would  start,  and  talk 
in  his  sleep.  During  this  time  my  interviews  with 
the  niece,  Lucy  Braisley,  were  frequent,  —  to  report 
progress,  to  express  my  hopes  and  fears,  and  to  ex- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  215 

plain  my  reason  for  such  and  such  treatment.  Her 
aunt,  the  wife,  was  too  feeble  and  too  nervous  to  at- 
tend to  it,  and  so  she  resided  in  the  city,  and  left  it 
all  to  her  niece  and  myself.  Was  it  wonderful  that 
she  should  think  my  plans  wise  and  judicious,  and  that 
I  should  admire  a  beautiful  orphan  who  was  watch- 
ing over  a  maniac  with  so  much  interest,  and  who 
could  so  readily  appreciate  my  services  ? 

It  was  evident  that  my  calling  him  a  villain  had 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  Braisley.  I  could  de- 
tect him  fishing  for  my  real  sentiments  on  that  point, 
and  so  apparent  was  his  desire  to  know  what  I 
thought  of  him,  that  my  own  suspicions  began  to  be 
awakened.  He  had  now,  ten  months  after  he  came 
to  me,  become  almost  entirely  rational ;  and  yet 
there  was  a  dark  streak  from  the  cloud  still  left, 
which  I  could  not  explain  or  fathom.  This  I  was 
anxious  to  unravel,  and  I  set  myself  to  work  accord- 
ingly. After  he  had  retired  to  his  rest  and  was 
asleep,  I  slipped  into  his  room  in  the  place  of  Stacy, 
every  other  night  for  a' fortnight.  These  were  sleep- 
less nights  to  me,  but  I  was  well  compensated.  Be- 
fore this,  I  had  offered  an  empty  hand,  but  a  true  and 
sincere  heart,  to  Lucy,  the  portionless  orphan,  and 
she  had  consented  to  unite  her  destiny  with  mine. 
We  looked  forward  to  privations,  and  perhaps  poverty, 
but  youth  looks  only  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  future, 
and  hope  peeps  out  from  the  darkest  shade.  With- 
out telling  her  or  any  one  my  suspicions,  I  laid  a 
plan  of  my  own.  Braisley  was  so  nearly  recovered, 
that  he  began  to  talk  of  resuming  his  business.  He 


216  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

evidently  felt  grateful  to  me  for  what  I  had  done  for 
him.  But  he  never  spoke  of  Lucy,  —  never  in- 
quired after  her  any  more  than  if  there  iiad  been  no 
such  person  created.  And  now  the  time  had  arrived 
when  my  patient  was  pronounced  by  all  to  be  cured, 
and  was  to  leave  me  on  the  morrow.  I  had  one  test 
yet  to  apply.  If  he  could  bear  that,  he  was  cured. 
He  did  bear  it.  It  was  thus.  The  day  before  he 
was  to  leave  me,  I  sent  for  him  to  come  to  me  in  my 
little  parlor.  He  came  in  and  sat  down  in  a  chair 
which  I  had  designedly  placed  in  a  strong  light.  I 
arose  and  locked  the  doors,  and  put  the  keys  in  my 
pocket.  I -then  sat  down  before  him,  and  looked 
him  full  in  the  face.  He  was  troubled,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  Mr.  Braisley,  months  ago  you  used  to  talk  and 
groan  about  having  ruined  and  robbed  orphans !  I 
want  to  know  how  much  of  it  was  insanity,  and  how 
much  was  living  truth  ?  " 

"  What  makes  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  " 
said  he,  haughtily. 

"  Because,  sir,  I  have  my  suspicions." 

"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  Has  Lucy  Braisley 
been  putting  them  into  your  head  ?  I  hear  you  are 
thick  with  her." 

"  No,  sir.  Lucy  never  said  a  word,  and  I  pre- 
sume never  indulged  a  thought,  prejudicial  to  you. 
I  have  it  from  a  better  witness." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yourself." 

"  I  ? " 


THE  DOCTOR'S  THIRD  PATIENT.  217 

"Yes.  I  have  slept  in  your  room,  or  rather 
watched  in  your  room,  while  you  were  sleeping,  for 
a  fortnight  at  a  time ;  and  I  have  heard  the  revela- 
tions of  a  conscience  which  sleep  could  not  quiet." 
He  was  now  pale,  and  shook  in  every  joint  and 
limb. 

"  What  do  you  suspect,  Doctor  ?  " 

"  That  you  have  robbed  Lucy  of  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars." 

Hardly  gasping,  as  he  tried  'to  breathe,  he  added, 
"  This  is  all  you  suspect  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  suspect  you  murdered  your  brother 
John,  for  the  sake  of  robbing  his  child." 

"  How  could  I,  when  he  died  away  from  home  ?  " 

"  By  slow  POISON  !  " 

He  said  not  a  word,  but  sank  down  on  the  floor 
like  lead,  faint,  and  hardly  breathing.  Now,  then, 
thought  I,  a  few  moments  will  decide  whether  he  is 
to  be  a  maniac  for  life  or  not.  I  threw  water  on 
him,  and  after  a  while  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  anxiously  round.  It  was  not  the  eye  of  a 
madman. 

"  Doctor  !  O,  just  heavens !  I  am  in  your  hands. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  'As  you  would  have  mercy  at  the 
Great  Day,  show  mercy  to  me !  " 

"  Mr.  Braisley,  I  shall  require  you  to  do  two 
things  ;  —  first,  to  restore  to  your  niece  the  seventy- 
five  thousand  dollars,  with  interest  from  .the  death  of 
her  father ;  and  second,  that  within  two  months  you 
leave  your  country  for  ever.  On  these  two  condi- 
tions I  promise  never  to  divulge  your  secret,  and  on 
19 


218  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

their  fulfilment  I  can  safely  promise  you  that  you 
will  never  again  divulge  them  in  your  sleep." 

Never  did  a  poor  wretch  more  cheerfully  make 
the  required  promises  than  did  he.  Nay,  it  seemed 
to  take  a  load  off  his  mind  and  heart  at  once.  We 
were  both  aware  that  I  had  no  legal  evidence  that 
could  convict  him,  and  yet  he  as  gladly  accepted 
my  proposals  as  I  made  them.  He  kept  his  word 
to  the  letter.  He  paid  over  the  money,  and  poor 
Lucy  always  supposed  it  was  the  recovery  of  debts 
due  her  father,  —  unexpectedly  recovered.  I  need 
not  tell  you  how  I  married  the  beautiful  girl,  —  what 
a  pattern  of  a  wife  she  was,  —  how  many  years  she 
was  the  light  of  my  dwelling,  and  a  blessing  to  me 
and  mine,  —  how  she  left  me  at  length  in  my  age, 
when  I  needed  her  the  most  and  loved  her  the 
most,  —  left  me  and  went  up  to  that  pure  world 
where  there  is  no  death  because  there  is  no  sin,  — 
how  my  aged  eyes  weep  at  the  remembrance  of 
what  she  was,  and  weep,  too,  with  joy  at  the  thought 
of  what  she  will  be  when  I  meet  her  again.  I  am 
now  an  old  man,  I  have  had  many,  many  cases  of 
insanity  since,  and  have  had  many  years  of  anxiety 
in  my  profession,  but  no  year  has  been  so  anxious, 
and  no  patient  has  been  of  such  consequence  to  me 
as  my  THIRD  PATIENT. 


ZIPPORAE. 


THE:  shadows  of  old  Horeb  began  to  stretch  over 
the  plains  of  Midian,  showing  that  the  night  was  com- 
ing down  upon  the  earth  again,  when  a  weary  stran- 
ger sat  down  by  a  well  of  water.  It  was  the  only  well 
in  all  the  region.  Down  the  glens  and  ravines  came 
the  flocks  of  the  shepherds  and  the  droves  of  the 
herdsmen,  twice  a  day  for  water.  The  men  came 
crowding  and  contending,  to  decide  whose  flock 
should  be  first  served.  They  chode  and  threatened 
each  other,  calling  the  most  abusive  names,  but  the 
stranger  took  no  notice  of  their  wrangling.  He  had 
stooped  down  and  slaked  his  thirst,  and  sat  alone, 
either  gloomy  or  sad.  At  length  there  came  a  flock 
to  the  well,  attended  only  by  girls.  They  were 
young  and  fair,  gentle  and  peaceful.  But  the  mo- 
ment they  came  near,  the  rude  shepherds  declared 
that  they  should  wait  till  all  the  rest  had  been  served, 
even  if  it  were  till  deep  darkness  had  come  on.  They 
even  became  bold  and  insolent  in  language  to  the 
maidens.  It  was  then  that  the  stranger  sprang  up, 


220  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

like  a  lion  from  his  lair,  and  said  that  the  flocks  of 
the  maidens  should  be  the  first  served.  And  when 
the  men  gathered  around  him,  he  threw  them  off  and 
scattered  them  by  his  strength. 

He  then  courteously  saluted  the  maidens,  drew 
water  for  their  charge,  and  sent  them  away  while 
blessing  him,  ere  the  sun  went  down.  Often  did 
they  turn  to  look  at  the  noble-hearted  and  strong- 
handed  stranger  as  he  sat  down  again  by  the  well, 
lost  in  thought.  They  hastened  home,  and  met  their 
princely  father  just  returning  from  a  duty  which  had 
detained  him,  —  for  he  was  a  prince  among  men 
and  a  priest  before  God.  He  paused  to  smile  upOn 
his  loved  ones,  and  to  ask  them  how  it  came  to  pass 
that  they  were  through  with  watering  their  flock  so 
early. 

"  Because,  father,"  said  Zipporah,  the  eldest  and 
fairest,  "  a  noble  stranger  met  us  at  the  well,  drove 
away  the  rude  shepherds,  who  were  insolent,  and 
then  drew  water  for  us." 

"  From  what  country  came  he  ?'" 

"  From  Egypt,  as  we  judged." 

"  What  made  ye  think  so  ?  " 

"Because  he  spoke  the  Egyptian  language  so 
beautifully,  and  his  dress  was  Egyptian.  He  must 
have  been  an  Egyptian,  and  yet  there  was  something 
more  noble  and  lofty  in  his  bearing  than  in  any  per- 
son of  that  country  I  ever  saw." 

"  But  he  could  not  have  been  an  Egyptian  !  " 

"  Why  not,  father  ?" 

"  Because   an    Egyptian   abominates   cattle   and 


ZIPPORAH.  221 

flocks,  and  would  never  draw  water  for  them,  or  be 
seated  near  them,  —  no,  not  even  if  maidens  were 
there  to  admire  him.  But  Egyptian  or  no  Egyptian, 
why  have  ye  not  brought  him  to  our  humble  home, 
to  share  our  hospitality  ?  " 

"  Was  it  seemly,  father,  for  maidens  to  be  so  bold 
with  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  Was  it  seemly,  girl,  to  leave  a  stranger  alone, 
hungry,  and  perhaps  sick,  to  spend  the  night  in  the 
open  air,  while  we  have  a  good  shelter  ?  Is  that 
the  kindness  of  maidens  who  are  instructed  to  show 
mercy,  and  to  live  not  for  themselves  ?  Go  call 
him,  and  bid  him  welcome  to  our  home." 

Away  went  the  maiden,  but  in  what  manner  she 
approached  him,  or  how  she  did  the  errand,  we  know 
not,  though  the  evening  found  him  with  the  family,  en- 
gaged in  lively  conversation.  Great  was  their  amaze- 
ment to  learn  that  he  belonged  to  the  Hebrew  race, 
—  of  whom  the  daughters  had  heard  but  little, 
though  they  knew  him  to  belong  to  an  oppressed 
class,  and  they  remembered  that  often,  at  the  family 
altar,  they  were  mentioned  with  deep  interest  by 
their  father.  But  there  were  no  marks  of  slavery 
about  him.  His  bearing  was  noble,  not  without  self- 
respect,  and  like  that  of  a  man  accustomed  to  com- 
mand, rather  than  to  obey.  They  did  not  understand 
all  the  long  conversation  between  their  father  and  the 
guest,  for  they  spake  much  in  the  Hebrew  tongue  ; 
but  they  understood  enough  to  know  that  his  life 
had  been  an  unusual  one, — that  some  great  pur- 
pose of  his  heart  had  been  thwarted,  —  that  a  mys- 
19* 


222  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

tery  seemed  connected  with  his  history  which  had 
not  yet  been  cleared  up  ;  and  that  he  must  for  the 
future  bear  exile  from  his  home  and  country,  and  in 
solitude  mourn  over  some  calamities  which  he  could 
not  remove. 

"  He  must  have  been  disappointed  in  love,"  said 
Zipporah  to  her  sister  Ellah  ;  "  poor  fellow  !  Is  he 
not  pitied  ?" 

"  Not  he  !  No,  he  never  was  in  love,  or  at  least, 
this  is  not  his  recent  calamity  and  disappointment," 
said  Ellah. 

"  How  knowest  thou,  my  sister  ?" 

"  By  two  special  marks  ;  first,  he  talks  and  mourns 
much  about  his  mother ;  and  secondly,  he  looks  on 
thee  too  admiringly  to  be  breaking  his  heart  for  any 
other  woman.  I  suspect  thee  of  being  warm  in  thy 
words  when  thou  wentest  to  call  him  at  the  well. 
More  than  once  I  have  caught  his  eyes  fastened  on 
thee." 

"  Nonsense,  Ellah.  It  is  a  fiction  of  thy  own 
imagination.  In  truth,  when  I  spoke  to  him  I  trem- 
bled with  awkwardness." 

"  Perhaps  he  watches  thee  to  see  if  this  trembling 
is  habitual." 

"  Nonsense,  sister." 

Long  was  the  conversation  between  the  father  and 
the  stranger.  In  the  morning  the  maidens  were  sur- 
prised to  learn  that  they  were  no  more  to  tend  the 
flocks  of  their  father.  The  stranger  was  to  be  the 
shepherd.  Awkwardly  but  resolutely  he  entered 
upon  his  duties,  and  in'  a  short  time  he  was  master 


ZIPPOEAH.  223 

of  his  simple  profession.  In  the  progress  of  time 
the  early  surmises  of  the  young  Ellah  were  proved 
true,  and  the  stranger  became  her  brother  by  es- 
pousing the  elder  sister  Zipporah  ;  and  they  were 
proud  to  number  among  their  family  Moses  the 
Hebrew. 

Time  moved  on,  and  with  a  wing  so  downy,  that 
the  gentle  Zipporah  scarcely  heeded  his  flight.  She 
saw  in  her  husband  a  humble  man,  faithful  to  his 
lowly  duties,  with  a  kind  of  sadness  which  was  in- 
explicable, with  now  and  then  a  flashing  of  hope, 
and  a  looming  up  of  character,  which  showed  that 
the  Hebrew  was  a  very  uncommon  man. 

Nearly  forty  years  after  this  marriage,  and  the 
Hebrew  shepherd  came  home  with  a  brow  so  thought- 
ful, and  a  countenance  so  anxious,  that  his  wife  was 
greatly  alarmed  and  distressed.  His  conversation 
was  now  on  schemes  so  incomprehensible,  and  so 
utterly  beyond  the  power  of  a  poor  mountain  shep- 
herd, that  the  family  began  to  come  to  the  fearful 
conclusion,  that  reason  had  forsaken  her  throne  for 
ever. 

When  Moses  found  that  he  could  not  be  under- 
stood or  believed,  in  regard  to  the  solemn  commis- 
sion which  God  had  given  him,  he  merely  proposed 
to  revisit  his  relatives  in  Egypt,  and  once  more  look 
upon  the  faces  of  those  he  used  to  love  so  well. 
With  his  wife  and  two  sons  he  set  out  for  Egypt. 
No  one  seeing  his  family  on  the  ass,  and  he  walking 
by  their  side  with  the  shepherd's  staff"  in  his  hand, 
would  have  believed  him  to  be  the  deliverer  and 


224  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

guide  of  a  nation,  —  the  man  of  many  generations. 
On  their  way  the  angel  of  God  met  them,  and  sol- 
emnly warned  Moses  that,  through  regard  to  his 
wife's  prejudices,  he  had  committed  a  great  sin  in 
not  having  circumcised  his  youngest  son. 

The  sword  was  in  the  angel's  hand,  and  the  life 
of  Moses  was  at  stake.  It  was  then  that  the  Midianite 
mother  gave  way,  —  circumcised  her  child,  and  won- 
dered over  the  mystery  of  blood.  Seeing  that  she 
would  be  a  hinderance  to  himself,  perhaps  a  cause  of 
unbelief  in  others,  and  foreseeing  that  he  must  now 
struggle  against  the  opposition  even  of  his  friends, 
and  dreading  to  expose  his  family  to  the  trials  which 
must  precede  the  deliverance  of  Israel,  Moses  gladly 
assented  that  for  a  season  she  should  return  back 
with  her  children  to  her  father's  house,  and  leave 
him  to  follow  his  high  calling.  She  could  not,  at 
that  time,  sympathize  with  that  love  for  his  down- 
trodden people,  whose  flame  forty  years'  absence 
had  no  power  to  quench  ;  and  she  could  not  believe 
that,  if  God  had  so  mighty  a  work  to  accomplish,  he 
would  select  an  instrument  so  lowly  as  her  husband. 

We  wonder  4hat  she  could  not  see,  that  though  the 
dust  of  Abraham  slept  in  the  cave  of  Machpelah, 
the  God  of  Abraham  still  lived ;  that  though  Isaac, 
Jacob,  and  Joseph  had  finished  the  work  which  they 
had  been  commissioned  to  do,  still  the  great  plans 
of  God  were  not  yet  accomplished.  We  wonder 
that  she  could  not  understand  that,  eighty  years  ago, 
her  husband  had  been  snatched  from  death  on  the 
Nile,  by  so  manifest  a  providence,  that  he  might  be 


ZIPPORAH.  225 

preserved  by  the  Divine  plans  to  perform  a  great 
work.  We  wonder  that  she  could  not  believe  that  a 
man  who  in  his  retirement  could  write  the  Book  of 
Job,  —  who  had  communion  with  God  so  constantly, 
and  who  had  seen  the  angel  of  the  everlasting  cov- 
enant in  the  burning  bush,  —  might  even  be  the 
leader  in  the  hands  of  the  Almighty  One  to  deliver 
Israel  from  the  bondage  of  Egypt.  But  what  is 
now  so  clear  to  us  was  dark  to  the  poor,  fearful 
wife,  and  she  turned  back  to  the  mountains  of  Midian, 
and  thus  cut  herself  off  from  the  privilege  of  sus- 
taining and  comforting  her  husband  in  his  great 
trials,  and  of  seeing  the  mighty  acts  of  God  in  de- 
livering his  people,  and  punishing  their  enemies,  and 
thus  her  sons  lost  the  opportunity  of  receiving  those 
sublime  impressions,  which  in  no  age  and  in  no  cir- 
cumstances would  again  be  made  on  men. 

Thus  our  unbelief  turns  us  back  and  palsies  our 
hand  from  light  and  duty,  shuts  us  off  from  witness- 
ing the  mighty  power  of  God,  and  takes  away  from 
others  golden  opportunities  of  receiving  good.  Sad, 
indeed,  is  it  for  any  one  thus  to  stumble  through  un- 
belief; but  doubly  sad  is  it  when  the  mother  thus 
sets  an  example  to  her  household. 

Two  old  men,  the  one  eighty  and  the  other  eighty- 
three,  with  a  simple  staff  in  the  hand,  were  slowly 
descending  a  mountain  and  in  solemn  conversation. 
How  feeble  such  instrumentality  to  move  a  proud 
king  and  his  court,  with  a  powerful  army  arid  at  the 
head  of  a  great  nation,  to  permit  one  tenth  of  his 
subjects  to  go  off  into  the  wilderness,  following  these 


226  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

two  men !  But  Jethro,  the  prince  and  the  priest  of 
Midian,  who  had  bid  his  son-in-law  to  go  in  peace, 
and  we  may  hope  his  wife,  too,  were  following  him 
with  their  prayers.  And  the  hoary-headed  elders  of 
Israel  believed  Moses  and  Aaron,  and  in  prayer  cried 
unto  God. 

To  follow  Moses  in  the  great  work  to  which  he 
was  commissioned,  and  to  watch  the  mysterious 
union  of  human  and  divine  agency,  of  weakness  and 
strength,  of  darkness  and  light,  of  folly  and  wisdom, 
would  be  a  most  grateful  task.  But  this  would  be 
foreign  from  our  plan.  In  the  solitudes  of  the  moun- 
tains, Zipporah  spent  several  following  years.  News 
travelled  very  slow  in  those  days.  It  was  not  till 
rumor  had  carried  the  fame  of  Moses  through  all  the 
surrounding  regions,  that  she  heard  of  his  achieve- 
ments, and  learned  to  her  amazement  that  her  hus- 
band, the  once  humble  shepherd  of  the  hills,  had 
become  a  prince  and  a  leader,  whose  name  would 
for  ever  stand  foremost  on  the  roll  of  greatness.  It 
seemed  like  a  dream  to  her,  that  millions  of  minds 
were  actually  acknowledging  him  as  their  deliverer, 
were  receiving  their  laws  and  religion  from  him,  and 
that  he  was  in  fact  to  be  the  founder  of  a  nation  and 
the  father  of  a  mighty  people.  It  was  then  that  her 
songs  broke  out,  and  her  faith,  which  had  staggered 
so  much,  received  strength.  She  was  humbled  that 
she  had  no  more  appreciated  his  character,  encour- 
aged him  in  his  work,  and  shared  his  trials,  rather 
than  to  quarrel  with  the  ordinances  of  God,  to  fold 
her  arms  at  home,  and  to  live  merely  for  herself. 


ZIPPORAH.  227 

Then  she  told  the  story  to  her  sons,  not  to  make  them 
proud  of  a  father  whose  name  they  were  to  inherit, 
but  to  lead  them  to  see  what  a  work  the  God  of  their 
fathers  was  accomplishing  through  him.  Old  Jethro 
rejoices  and  praises  God  for  the  tidings  which  are 
brought  to  him.  Again  the  family  leave  their  home, 
and  travel  towards  the  deserts. 

On  a  sunny  morning,  the  sons  of  Moses  pointed 
out  to  their  grandfather  a  bright  little  cloud  in  the 
distance,  that  hung  stationary  between  heaven  and 
earth.  Then  Jethro  dismounted,  and  kneeled  down 
and  praised  the  Lord,  —  for  he  knew  that  he  was 
now  looking  on  the  cloud  which  hung  over  the  tab- 
ernacle, and  in  which  God  dwelt.  In  a  short  time 
they  saw  the  white  tents,  and  heard  the  hum  of  the 
mighty  travelling  city,  and  knew  they  were  near  the 
hosts  of  the  Lord.  The  tent  of  Moses  was  in  front, 
—  the  place  where  they  were  thronging  from  morn- 
ing to  evening,  for  justice  and  for  instruction.  As 
they  drew  near,  the  heart  of  Zipporah  fluttered  and 
beat  wildly.  Would  her  husband  receive,  and  ac- 
knowledge, and  love  her  again  ?  How  changed  was 
his  noble  brow,  by  the  cares  and  anxieties  of  his  sta- 
tion !  What  a  lofty  character  he  now  was  !  She 
was  almost  afraid  to  meet  his  eye  !  But  the  moment 
he  sees  them,  he  forgets  all  the  past,  folds  his  wife 
and  his  sons  to  his  bosom,  and  with  tears  welcomes 
the  good  old  Jethro  to  his  tent.  What  a  meeting 
was  that !  Many  and  pleasant  were  the  hours  which 
the  family  spent  that  night,  in  recounting  and  in  lis- 
tening to  the  story  of  God's  wonderful  dealings  to- 


228  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

wards  Israel.  If  Zipporah  now  found  her  husband 
to  be  a  great  and  a  lofty  character,  he  no  less  found 
that  she  was  greatly  chastened  in  piety,  strengthened 
in  faith  and  meekness,  and  was  now  better  fitted  than 
ever  before  to  be  his  cheerful  companion,  and  advis- 
ing and  loving  friend.  The  separation  had  greatly 
unfolded  and  elevated  her  character.  The  great  and 
meek  Moses,  too,  was  willing  to  receive  hints  and 
suggestions  from  his  father-in-law,  which  were  of 
great  importance  and  benefit  to  him.  Sweet  was 
their  communion  together,  in  which  both  had  clearer 
and  deeper  views  into  the  plans  and  promises  of  Is- 
rael's Gods  The  simplicity  of  character  and  sincere 
piety  of  the  priest  of  the  mountains  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  the  hosts  under  Moses,  and  from  the  day 
of  their  arrival  the  whole  family  lived  to  do  good. 
Many  years  did  Zipporah  live  in  the  tent  of  her  hus- 
band, sharing  his  sorrows,  alleviating  his  trials  and 
labors,  and  living  to  be  the  light  of  his  home.  With- 
out ambition  or  regret  she  saw  her  sons,  not  rulers 
or  leaders,  but  taking  a  low  place  among  the  Levites, 
the  servants  of  the  tabernacle,  to  have  no  inheritance 
or  name  among  the  great  ones  of  Israel.  Her  pray- 
er was,  that  in  all  humility  they  might  serve  their 
God  and  deliverer. 

In  the  midst  of  the  wilderness,  in  the  burning  des- 
ert, all  Israel  saw  one  morning  the  little  white  flag 
on  the  tent  of  Moses  gone,  and  a  small  ribbon  of 
black  in  its  place.  Then  they  crowded  towards  the 
tent,  for  they  knew  that  the  angel  of  death  had  been 
there,  and  that  the  heart  of  their  leader  was  smitten. 


ZIPPORAH.  229 

Silently  the  hosts  passed  around  the  tent,  and  blessed 
the  memory  of  her  who  was  gone.  Many  rose  up 
and  called  her  blessed.  They  dug  her  grave  among 
the  scorching  sands  of  the  desert,  and  laid  her  there 
alone,  without  a  stone  or  ornament  to  mark  the  spot 
where  she  steeps  till  the  morning  of  the  resurrection. 
Deep  and  sincere  was  the  mourning  of  the  great 
leader  of  Israel ;  and  though  he  spent  the  night  fol- 
lowing the  burial  in  his  tent  alone,  recalling  the  past 
and  living  over  the  past,  even  from  the  moment  when 
he  first  saw  the  maidens  at  the  well  in  Midian,  yet 
when  the  morning  sun  rose,  and  the  cloud  was  taken 
up  off  the  tabernacle,  signifying  that  the  host  were  to 
remove,  the  mourner  was  ready,  and  with  a  counte- 
nance and  a  voice  calm  and  peaceful  he  resumed  his 
station,  and  all  Israel  felt  that,  though  the  strong  man 
was  bowed,  he  was  not  crushed.  Zipporah  sleeps  in 
the  desert,  —  but  in  the  morning  of  the  resurrection 
will  she  not  come  up  and  unite  with  those  who  sing 
"  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb  "  ? 


INCIDENTS  IN  A  JOURNEY  FOR  HEALTH. 


GOING   NORTH. 

THERE  were  two  of  us,  and  yet,  as  I  must  alone  be 
responsible  for  what  I  say,  I  shall  be  excused,  I  hope, 
for  the  frequent  use  of  the  first  person.  At  the  close 
of  a  noisy  Fourth  of  July,  we  found  ourselves  going 
from  Greenbush  to  Troy  in  the  cars.  (No  matter, 
kind  reader,  who  we  are,  or  where  we  came  from,  — 
the  editors  know.)  How  they  did  smoke  and  swear! 
the  multitudes  in  those  cars,  passing  between  the  two 
cities.  It  was  enough  to  chill  one's  blood,  and  we 
should  think  enough  to  make  the  most  noisy  advocate 
for  universal  licensing  tremble  at  the  spirits  which  he 
had  helped  to  unchain.  At  Troy  we  took  the  cars 
for  "  the  Borough,"  or  place  on  the  Champlain  Canal 
where  you  take  the  boat.  Of  all  travelling  conven- 
iences in  the  world,  these  canal-boats  are  among  the 
most  inconvenient.  The  company  all  look  weary, 
homesick,  and  almost  cross.  They  are  too  near  it, 
certainly,  to  feel  good-natured ;  and  I  never  heard  an 


GOING   NORTH.  231 

interesting,  animated  conversation  in  one  of  these 
"  swimmers."  We  slept  but  little,  and  crept  out  of 
the  hot  room  parboiled,  and  awfully  bitten. 

Early  in  the  morning  we  found  we  had  passed  a 
groggeiy  where,  during  the  night,  there  had  been  a 
drunken  row,  and  one  murder  committed.  We  passed 
many  places  which  looked  as  if  such  deeds  might 
easily  and  naturally  be  done  in  them.  At  Whitehall, 
(lucus  a  non  lucendo  ?)  where  they  seem  cooped  up 
and  wedged  together  so  close,  that  it  seems  as  if  the 
canal-boat  could  not  get  through  it,  and  yet  where 
there  is  much  that  is  good,  we  took  the  steamboat, — 
one  of  those  boats  so  celebrated,  the  world  over,  for 
neatness  and  perfection.  For  the  first  few  miles,  as 
you  enter  Lake  Champlain,  it  is  uninteresting  in  the 
extreme ;  but  as  the  lake  begins  to  open,  and  you 
pass  along  the  bold  shores,  now  gazing  at  its  beauti- 
ful waters,  and  now  at  the  lofty  ridge  of  the  Green 
Mountains,  the  backbone  of  Vermont,  and  now  upon 
the  Blue  Mountains  that  rise  up  pointed  and  lofty  on 
the  New  York  side,  you  feel  that  you  are  in  a  beau- 
tiful region,  and  want  a  near  and  dear  friend  with 
you  to  help  you  to  admire  it,  and  to  whom  you  can 
say,  "  See  there  ! "  The  shores  on  the  New  York 
side  are  mostly  bold,  with  beautiful  bays,  while  on 
the  Vermont  side  they  are  mostly  flat  and  fertile. 

As  you  pass  along  down  (north),  pretty  villages 
cluster  along  and  peep  out  of  the  trees,  as  if  to  ad- 
mire and  to  be  admired.  There  is  Burlington,  sitting 
like  a  queen,  with  a  college  for  her  crown,  and  look- 
ing off  upon  scenery  changing  every  half-hour  hi  the 


232  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

day ;  and  there,  in  front  of  her,  are  the  curious  rocks 
which  shoot  up  out  of  the  lake  so  bold  and  so  naked, 
and  at  which  a  British  war  vessel  fired  during  one 
long  night  in  the  last  war,  —  mistaking  them  for  ves- 
sels, —  without  ever  bringing  them  to  surrender ! 
Opposite  Burlington,  quite  across  the  lake,  is  old 
Whiteface,  a  singular  mountain,  lofty,  lonely,  and 
proudly  lifting  up  his  bald  head,  and  looking  boldly 
into  his  native  State,  into  Vermont,  and  far  into  Can- 
ada. The  storms  of  a  thousand  winters  leave  his 
head  no  less  high,  no  way  altered. 

But  it  is  nearly  dark  when  you  leave  Burlington. 
The  custom-house  officer  has  come  on  board  to  see 
that  you  are  honest,  the  twilight  settles  over  the  moun- 
tains, and  then  it  creeps  down  to  the  shores,  and  at 
last  over  the  lake,  and  wraps  the  boat  in  its  folds. 
The  chimneys  send  out  their  streams  of  fire-sparks, 
and  they  flash  and  threaten  to  burn  up  every  thing ; 
but  they  drop  upon  the  lake,  and  are  gone  for  ever. 
You  now  retire  to  your  berth,  listen  to  the  play  or 
rather  work  of  the  engine,  the  dash  of  the  wheels, 
feel  the  leap  of  the  boat  at  every  stroke,  think  of  the 
boiler  that  has  not  yet  burst,  think  of  your  friends  far 
away,  commit  and  commend  all  to  the  Great  Watch- 
er, and  go  to  sleep.  In  the  morning  you  are  waked 
in  a  hurry  to  show  your  baggage  to  the  custom-house 
officer,  to  enter  St.  Johns,  to  see  and  to  feel  that  you 
are  in  a  new  world.  St.  Johns !  who  is  not  disap- 
pointed in  entering  the  place  ?  So  grim,  and  poor, 
and  untidy,  so  full  of  soldiers,  and  so  mournfully  de- 
caying !  It  looks  as  if  there  were  no  enterprise,  no 


GOING    NORTH.  233 

activity,  no  encouragement,  no  hope.  You  eat  a  very 
poor  breakfast,  in  a  very  unfastidious  place,  and  are 
glad  to  take  the  cars  for  Montreal.  Is  it  prejudice 
in  me  ?  But  it  does  seem  as  if  the  ticket-man  is 
more  gruff,  more  "  take-it-and-be-off "  in  his  man- 
ner, than  our  folks  are.  And  there  are  ceremonies, 
and  delays,  and  examinations  before  we  are  off.  But 
now  we  move,  —  we  go, —  and  the  one-story  houses, 
with  the  long,  tapelike  lots  and  thistles  behind  them, 
and  the  lofty,  beautiful  elms,  are  flying  past  us  to- 
wards St.  Johns  in  great  haste. 

We  now,  for  the  first  time,  get  the  full  idea  of  what 
a  prairie  means.  A  dead  level  plain,  which  seems 
once  to  have  been  the  bed  of  a  lake,  everywhere 
alike,  and  everywhere  like  itself.  We  rattle  over  it 
till  we  reach  the  majestic  St.  Lawrence.  What  a 
river !  Nine  miles  now  to  Montreal  by  steamer  on 
this  grand  river !  Nature  now  puts  on  an  ample,  as 
well  as  a  beautiful  cloak.  It  seems  impossible  that 
all  this  should  be  a  river,  and  that  these  waters,  run- 
ning with  such  immense  force,  should  thus  run  day 
and  night,  every  hour,  since  creation,  and  the  ocean 
be  no  fuller,  and  the  lakes  no  smaller,  than  when  it 
first  began  to  run.  What  a  beautiful  island,  that 
long,  low,  paradise-looking  spot  that  is  at  the  left  ! 
That  is  magnificent,  and  belongs  to  the  Gray  Nuns 
of  Montreal.  This  is  but  a  small  item  in  their  amaz- 
ing amount  of  property.  Verily,  if  they  have  much 
in  the  next  world,  they  will  be  rich  in  both  worlds. 

Now  we  dash  on  and  draw  near  to  Montreal,  whose 
quays  are  English  and  magnificent ;  where  the  trav- 


234  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

eller  goes  often,  and  as  often  describes  ;  where  the 
city  looks  old,  and  rich,  and  poor ;  where  the  great 
Cathedral  looms  up- all  over  the  city,  the  interest  of 
whose  cost  would  relieve  multitudes  of  those  poor 
emigrants  who  lie  burning  in  the  dirt  on  the  quays  ; 
where  barracks  are  crowded  with  soldiery,  and  the 
bugle,  the  drum,  and  the  "  everlasting  drone "  of 
the  bagpipe  are  constantly  heard  ;  where  nuns  and 
priests  ride  in  the  old  two-hundred-year-ago  calash, 
and  where  every  thing  looks  foreign  and  strange. 
Ships  are  now  coming  up  loaded  with  poor  emigrants, 
and  when  they  reach  the  quay,  so  poor,  squalid,  dis- 
couraged and  stupid  are  the  crowds,  that  in  some  in- 
stances, certainly,  they  are  pushed  ashore  with  a  pole, 
just  as  cattle  would  be. 

Canada  cold  !  Why,  the  thermometer  is  ninety- 
six  degrees  in  the  shade  to-day,  and  here  we  are, 
broiling  and  roasting,  doing  errands,  and  getting 
ready  to  be  off  in  the  evening  boat  for  Quebec. 
Having  been  here  about  nine  hours,  done  a  multi- 
tude of  copper-currency  matters,  visited  the  Cathe- 
dral, the  Post-Office,  the  parade-ground,  and  the  like, 
are  we  not  prepared  to  judge,  and  criticize,  and  go 
into  the  history  of  things  ?  So  travellers  do  when 
they  come  among  us.  This  was  a  French,  is  now 
professedly  an  English,  but  in  reality  a  Yankee 
city.  You  see  Yankee  names,  hear  Yankeeisms, 
such  as  "  Be  spry  now,"  "  Don't  let  the  grass  grow 
under  your  feet,"  &c.,  and  you  find  multitudes  among 
her  merchants  and  mechanics  who  were  from  the 
"  States."  Here,  too,  we  have  a  portion  in  David ;  for 


GOING    NORTH. 

here  our  own  Christmas  and  Strong  fell  with  their 
armor  bright,  and  who  left  a  name  that  is  better  than 
precious  ointment.  Here  labors  Wilkes,  too,  who, 
though  not  of  us,  is  a  full-hearted,  long-breathing 
soul,  with  a  heart  large  enough  to  love  every  body, 
and  a  hand  warm  enough  to  make  you  feel  that  you 
are  a  part  of  every  body.  We  found  nothing  which 
we  needed  so  cheap  as  at  home.  Why  should  we  ? 
New  York  seems  to  be  the  port  of  entry  for  Mon- 
treal, and  always  must  be,  so  long  as  the  long,  cold 
winters  lock  up  the  St.  Lawrence,  as  they  do  every 
year. 

Just  at  evening  we  took  the  "  British  Queen  "  for 
Quebec.  And  never  did  I  suppose  a  British  queen 
could  be  so  filthy  and  disagreeable.  She  was  crowd- 
ed with  passengers,  parties  of  pleasure,  invalids, 
wonder-seekers,  young  officers,  and  old  ladies ;  and 
then,  on  the  forward  decks,  what  motley  crowds  of 
human  beings  !  Indian  men  with  their  bark  canoes, 
Indian  women  with  their  pappooses,  and  tawdry  moc- 
casons  for  sale,  bead-bags  and  bark  purses,  and  then 
people  of  all  nations,  some  with  diseases  you  never 
heard  of,  and  were  never  shocked  with,  before  ;  some 
evidently  poor  and  emaciated,  if  not  starving,  horses, 
donkeys,  dogs,  and  sheep.  If  Improvement  ever 
tried  to  get  his  hand  in  here,  he  surely  must  have 
withdrawn  it  quickly  in  utter  discouragement.  Every 
thing  seems  here  to  go  by  the  hardest.  That  steam- 
boat we  are  about  to  meet,  so  crowded  with  people, 
is  going  to  Montreal,  and  all  those  are  going  to  mar- 
ket. If  a  woman  has  a  calf,  or  a  sheep,  or  four  dozen 


236  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

of  eggs,  she  goes  to  market  herself,  pays  a  shilling 
for  the  calf,  two  for  herself,  one  for  tobacco,  and  gets 
home  with  a  pound  of  tobacco,  and  from  one  to  two 
shillings  in  money.  Such  a  thing  as  having  one  man 
take  all  the  calves,  or  eggs,  or  sheep,  would  be  an 
innovation  not  to  be  thought  of. 

We  stop  at  Sorelle  over  one  boat.  Here  we  meet 
Mr.  Osunkherhine,  born  in  the  wilderness  of  New 
York,  on  the  Raquette  River,  about  the  time  of  year 
the  wild  geese  fly  north.  ("  Osunkherhine,"  "  the 
birds  are  coming,")  hence  his  name.  He  is  now  the 
missionary  of  the  American  Board  to  his  people,  the 
Abenaquis  Indians  ;  a  sober,  shrewd,  interesting,  and 
very  valuable  man.  Our  interview  is  very  pleasant, 
and  we  hope,  on  our  return,  to  visit  his  flock.  So- 
relle is  a  most  miserable-looking  place  to  our  eyes. 
Here  is  a  single  company  of  soldiers,  and  here  re- 
sides the  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  military  forces 
in  Canada.  To-day  he  inspects  this  company  for  his 
annual  report.  Under  the  most  burning  sun  they 
muster,  and  after  standing  on  parade  two  long  hours 
in  waiting,  the  fat,  squabby  man  arrives,  alone,  gets 
off  his  white  horse,  just  walks  round  the  company 
once,  the  captain  following  at  his  heels,  and  he  then 
coolly  asks,  "  Is  the  dinner  most  ready  ?  "  Soft  and 
easy  this,  but  his  salary  is,  we  are  told,  .£25,000  an- 
nually. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE.        237 


VALLEY  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE. 

AT  Point  Levy,  after  much  "  dickering  "  in  com- 
ing to  a  bargain,  we  procured  a  man  with  his  horse, 
and  the  Canada  horse-cart,  to  take  us  to  "  St.  Ma- 
ry's," ten  leagues.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
we  started,  a  hot  day,  we,  and  the  driver,  and  all  our 
baggage  and  provisions,  piled  up  on  that  little  two- 
wheeled  machine,  with  a  small,  gnarly,  ungainly, 
but  powerful  horse,  to  draw  us.  As  we  ascended 
from  the  St.  Lawrence,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  flat, 
level  prairie  country,  soil  light  and  thin,  and  clusters 
of  evergreen  woods  here  and  there.  Now  we  could 
realize  we  were  in  a  foreign  country.  The  roads 
were  straight  and  dusty  ;  poles  stuck  in  the  ground, 
with  pieces  of  tin  on  them  punched  with  holes,  told 
us  when  we  had  passed  a  league.  At  the  crossings 
of  the  streets,  and  every  now  and  then  by  the  road- 
side, would  be  a  Catholic  symbol,  a  cross,  a  cock,  a 
spear,  a  heart,  a  crown  of  thorns,  &c.,  cut  of  wood, 
rudely  painted  white,  and  very  conspicuous.  In 
passing  these,  our  drivers  (for  we  changed  every 
time  we  procured  a  new  horse)  would  raise  the  hat, 
mutter  something,  and  perhaps  the  next  moment  be 
swearing  at  the  horse  in  abominable  French.  I 
never  before  heard  praying  and  awful  imprecations 
uttered  so  near  to  each  other  from  the  same  lips. 
For  our  drivers  we  always  had  peasants,  who  owned 
their  chubbed  horses  and  little  teetering,  wabbling 


238  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

carts.  They  always  carried  their  own  provisions, 
consisting  chiefly  of  the  coarsest  black  bread,  and 
fed  their  horse  only  with  the  long  grass  which  grew 
so  spontaneously  by  the  way-side,  —  so  that  all  they 
received  from  you  was  to  them  clear  gain. 

After  riding  about  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  from 
the  St.  Lawrence,  we  came  to  the  Falls  on  the  Chau- 
diere  River,  —  most  beautiful !  We  longed  to  have 
an  intelligent  population  around  them  to  admire  their 
beauty,  and  if  real  Yankees  would  not  yearn  to  see 
this  noble  river  driving  mills  and  factories  at  these 
falls,  then  we  do  not  know  them.  And  now  we 
come  to  the  houses,  —  all  French,  and  all  just  as 
the  fashion  was  in  1608,  when  they  came  here. 
Imagine  a  low,  one-story  house,  few  windows,  the 
roof  coming  down  low,  and  so  as  to  jut  over,  and 
the  shingles  at  the  eaves  sawed  into  notches  like  saw- 
teeth, —  the  chimneys  at  each  end  built  up  on  the 
outside  of  the  house,  —  the  whole  roof  and  sides 
whitewashed  every  year,  —  not  a  tree  or  a  shrub 
near  the  house,  —  the  pigs  coming  up  to  the  door 
and  into  the  door,  —  the  inside  any  thing  but  neat, 
usually  smoky,  dingy,  and  dirty,  —  the  barn  long,  usu- 
ally thatched  with  coarse  hay,  and  all  whitewashed, 
except  the  roof,  and  that,  if  it  be  shingled,  —  and  you 
have  a  specimen  of  the  whole.  On  the  banks  of  the 
Chaudiere  is  here  and  there  an  elm,  lofty',  graceful, 
and  beautiful,  but  otherwise  the  valley  is  stripped  of 
trees.  Not  a  tree  or  bush  of  any  kind,  for  shade,  or- 
nament, or  for  fruit,  did  we  see  in  the  whole  valley. 
The  valley  is  a  few  miles  wide,  and  then  the  hills 


VALLEY    OF    THE    CHATTDIERE.  239 

rise  up  covered  with  forests,  —  at  least  this  is  so  after 
you  have  left  the  valley  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  When 
by  a  soft  Canada  moonlight  you  look  around,  it  is 
most  beautiful.  The  river  murmurs  along,  kissing 
its  rich  banks,  the  tall  elms  look  down  in  it  as  if  ad- 
miring their  own  forms,  —  the  white  houses  and 
barns  scattered  along  the  gentle  slopes  each  side 
of  the  river,  and  the  little  lights  borrowed  from  the 
stars  reflected  back  towards  the  heavens  from  the 
waters,  —  all  combine  to  make  it  look  like  an  en- 
chanted land.  It  seems  as  if  it  must  be  a  paradise. 

But  when  you  come  near  the  illusion  all  vanishes. 
These  people  are  all  very  poor.  You  go  into  their 
houses,  and  there  are  no  books,  no  papers,  no  read- 
ing of  any  kind.  Probably  very  few  can  read  at  all. 
But  in  every  room  are  female  saints  hung  around, — 
all  looking  alike,  —  all  having  the  oval,  unmeaning 
face.  In  your  bedroom,  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  you 
will  probably  find  a  small,  ugly  waxen  image  of  our 
Saviour.  In  every  house  you  will  find  the  children, 
especially  the  girls,  comely ;  but  all  who  have  reached 
thirty  are  old,  —  they  all  look  very  old,  and  of  the 
same  age.  Smoking  and  drinking,  horse-racing  and 
confessing  to  priests,  seem  to  comprise  all  that  is 
changeful  or  amusing.  In  the  whole  valley  we  saw 
not  a  post-office,  —  we  do  not  say  positively  there 
was  none,  but  we  saw  none,  —  we  saw  not  a  store 
of  any  kind,  nor  hardly  a  mechanic's  shop  of  any 
kind,  if  we  except  a  small  cobbler's  shop.  But 
there  were  filthy  drinking-taverns  almost  without 
number ;  at  one  of  which  they  could  literally  accom- 


240  .      SUMMER   GLEAKINGS. 

modate  us  with  nothing,  unless  we  wanted  to  smoke 
or  to  drink.  Every  thing  called  upon  you  to  deplore 
the  ignorance  of  the  inhabitants,  while  you  smiled 
at  the  results  of  ignorance.  Here  you  would  meet 
with  a  farmer  going  after  hay.  His  team  consists 
of  two  yoke  of  oxen,  with  a  long  pole  extended  from 
the  cart,  and  to  which  pole  the  oxen  were  fastened, 
and  drew  by  their  horns.  If  the  team  was  to  turn,  it 
took  a  great  space,  and  it  was  a  great  exploit  to  get 
it  round.  The  cart  which  follows  this  team  is  so 
unlike  any  thing  we  ever  saw  that  we  will  not  at- 
tempt to  describe  it.  Here  you  meet  with  a  farmer 
going  out  to  mow  his  grass.  He  has  a  long,  straight 
pole,  and  a  scythe  fastened  on  its  end,  as  his  tool. 
Here  you  will  see  a  front  lot,  and  in  its  centre  a  pile 
of  stones,  often  fifteen  rods  long  and  several  rods, 
wide.  This  great  heap  is  the  accumulation  from 
that  farm  for  generations ;  and  while  they  are  lying 
there  the  man  goes  off,  probably  three  miles,  to  cut 
and  haul  fencing.  When  he  comes  to  make  his 
fence  he  drives  posts  into  the  ground,  two  by  two, 
close  together,  and  withes  them  to  each  other,  —  a 
very  expensive  fence.  It  is  as  if  he  had  built  a  solid 
fence  of  equal  thickness,  just  as  a  log-house  is  built, 
except  the  two  posts  make  it  double.  Then  the  farm- 
ing !  The  hoe,  mostly  in  the  hands  of  females,  is 
the  large  negro  hoe  of  the  South.  The  manure  is 
in  the  way,  and  so  they  cart  it  off  by  hundreds  of 
loads  and  throw  it  into  the  river !  This  we  saw  done 
all  along  the  valley ;  or,  if  it  has  accumulated  too 
much  for  this  process,  .they  move  the  barn  away 


VALLEY  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE.        241 

from  it,  —  so  we  were  told.  We  saw  nothing  that 
answered  to  the  name  of  a  well,  or  a  cistern,  or  what 
we  call  conveniences.  All  has  an  air  of  great  dis- 
comfort. When  they  want  an  article  or  a  tool,  they 
pick  up  something  that  can  be  spared  and  sold,  and 
set  off  to  Quebec  to  procure  it.  We  saw  a  man  going 
seventy-five  miles  to  procure  a  single  scythe. 

The  churches  are  old,  antiquated  buildings,  kept 
in  excellent  repair,  but  so  unlike  all  our  ideas  of 
architecture  !  A  steeple  here  at  a  corner,  or  two  or 
three  steeples,  steep  roofs  and  painted.  They  have 
the  appearance  of  being  very  old.  At  or  near  each 
church  we  frequently  met  the  priest,  —  usually  a 
young  man,  dressed  in  a  black,  loose  dress,  and 
drawn  up  around  the  waist  as  if  it  were  a  petticoat 
gathered  up  behind.  It  more  resembles  that  gar- 
ment in  make  than  any  other.  At  one  church  a  bevy 
of  black-dressed  sisters  poured  out,  chanting  some- 
thing as  they  went  round  into  the  back  door.  We 
supposed  them  to  be  nuns. 

It  is  very  difficult  for  the  traveller  to  make  him- 
self understood  as  he  passes  through  this  region. 
If  you  use  the  French  word  for  an  article,  very  likely 
they  cannot  understand  it  any  better  than  English. 
At  a  French  tavern  where  we  arrived  very  late  in 
the  evening,  I  found  myself  feverish,  and  fairly 
shaking  with  chills.  Never  did  my  teeth  chatter  so, 
or  my  bones  move  so  rapidly.  I  went  to  bed  and 
asked  the  landlady  if  she  could  send  me  up  a  bowl 
of  hot  ginger  tea  1  "  Oui,  Monsieur."  The  bed- 
stead was  composed  of  straight  sticks  pinned  together, 


242  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

and  the  chairs  of  the  same  primitive  pattern.  After 
tossing,  burning,  chilling,  and  freezing  perhaps  an 
hour,  up  came  the  hostess,  in  the  dark,  with  a  bowl 
smoking  hot,  as  I  presumed,  —  for  she  had  no  light 
in  the  house,  —  and  I  seized  it  in  the  hopes  that  the 
ginger  tea  would  warm  me.  To  my  mouth  it  went. 
Whew !  it  was  a  bowl  of  hot  gin-sling !  "  Ah  ! 
Madame,  tea,  ginger  tea,  I  want  !  "  "  O  Mon- 
sieur !  gingembre  !  gingembre  !  non  !  non  !  Voulez- 
vous  gouter  de  mon  godet  ?  "  "  Non,  Madame,  re- 
portez,  reportez,  s'il  vous  plait."  I  lived  through  the 
night,  but  it  was  a  very  long  one.  At  another  time 
I  wanted  to  convey  the  idea  of  an  egg,  and  said, 
"  Un  oeuf  ?  "  The  head  was  shaken,  and  the  look 
earnest.  "  Un  osuf  frais  ?  "  Again  the  head  was 
shaken,  and  I  was  not  understood.  I  then  set  up 
the  "  cut,-  cut,  ca-daw-cut,"  of  the  hen ;  and  the 
smile,  revealing  a  beautiful  row  of  teeth,  showed 
that  the  hens  cackled  in  English  in  Canada,  as  well 
as  with  us.  I  was  understood,  but  the  eggs,  —  they 
could  not  be  eaten  as  they  were  cooked  !  In  the 
fields  you  see  the  women  at  work,  covered  with  large 
straw  hats.  The  people  were  universally  civil,  and 
even  polite,  always  lifting  the  hat,  if  you  met  a  man, 
and  making  a  most  graceful  bow,  if  a  woman.  It 
seemed  as  if  this  population  were  instructed  and  en- 
lightened, they  would  become  a  valuable  people. 
They  seem  industrious,  hardy,  but  awfully  sunken 
in  ignorance,  superstition,  and  sin.  It  is  said  —  I  do 
not  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it  —  that  notices  are  given 
in  the  churches  on  the  Sabbath  when  and  where  a 


VALLEY  OF  THE  DU  LOUP.         243 

sale  of  horses  is  to  take  place.  What  other  means 
have  they  of  advertising  ?  They  have  no  papers, 
and  can  neither  read  nor  write.  Shall  we  contrast 
them  with  Massachusetts,  settled  the  same  time  ? 
Not  now,  reader,  but  more  anon.  The  only  thing 
that  looked  as  if  it  belonged  to  an  age  less  than  two 
centuries  ago  was  here  and  there  a  —  cheap  Yankee 
dock  ! 

"  Quis  jam  locus,  — 
Quse  regio  in  terris  nostri  non  plena  laboris  1 " 


VALLEY  OF  THE  DU  LOUP. 

WE  followed  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Chaudiere 
up  day  after  day,  passing  the  ancient  churches, 
St.  Mary's,  St.  George's,  St.  Joseph's,  et  omne  id 
genus,  till  the  hills  began  to  draw  nearer  to  each 
other,  and  the  valley  to  grow  smaller.  Here  and 
there  along  the  river's  course  would  be  pine  logs, 
which  were  left  scattered  along  by  the  "  river  driv- 
ers "  in  the  early  spring,  as  they  guided  down  the 
annual  harvest  of  lumber.  It  was  now  Saturday 
afternoon,  and  we  had  reached  the  last  village,  and 
the  last  house  but  one  or  two,  before  entering  the 
wilderness.  We  were  deliberating  where  and  how 
to  pass  the  Sabbath  ;  but  an  hour  in  the  filthy  village 
decided  us.  We  were  now  at  the  junction  of  the 
Chaudiere,  the  La  Famine,  and  the  Riviere  du  Loup 
(Wolf  lliver) ;  so,  telling  our  guides  to  take  the  heavy 


244  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

luggage  on  their  shoulders,  and  each  of  us  talking  a 
pack,  we  set  out,  Indian  file,  leaving  the  Chaudiere, 
and  following  the  Du  Loup  up  towards  its  source. 

After  staggering  along  about  three  miles  from  any 
habitation  of  man,  we  turned  into  the  woods,  told 
our  guides  to  pitch  our  tent  in  the  best  spot  they 
could  find,  for  there  we  should  spend  the  Sabbath. 
So  we  boiled  our  tea  in  a  large  open  tin  pail,  took 
out  our  scanty  store  of  meat,  our  large  supply  of 
what  we  procured  in  Montreal  under  the  name  of 
ship-crackers,  —  (abominable  stuff,  and  well  named 
crackers,  for  every  mouthful  threatened  to  crack 
your  jaws  and  teeth,)  —  and  made  our  first  meal  in 
the  wilderness.  It  was  a  magnificent  Canada  forest, 
untouched  by  man.  We  chose  to  Sabbatize  here, , 
rather  than  in  the  very  dirty  place  we  had  left,  and 
where  not  a  soul  could  speak  a  word  of  English. 
As  our  camp-fire  burned  up,  and  sent  up  its  stream  of 
light  among  the  tall  trees,  it  seemed  as  if  the  trees 
were  so  many  pillars,  and  their  tops  so  many  cano- 
pies of  silver.  When  the  camp-fire  is  first  lighted 
in  the  forest,  you  always  feel  as  if  you  must  shout. 

The  next  morning  at  daylight  we  were  awaked  by 
the  calls  of  the  Canada  forest-bird,  which  they  call 
by  a  term  which  means  "the  morning  whistler." 
His  notes,  when  he  first  begins,  are  very  sad,  but  he 
is  in  a  complete  frolic  before  he  closes  them.  He 
begins  and  sings,  slowly  and  then  lively,  "  O  dear ! 
dear !  dear !  —  diddle-de  —  diddle-de  —  dee  !  "  It  is 
impossible  not  to  love  a  little  fellow  whose  notes  of 
sorrow  and  of  joy  are  so  near  each  other.  After 


VALLEY  OF  THE  DU  LOUP.         245 

breakfast,  the  supper  over  again,  as  we  sat  reading 
our  little  Testaments,  there  came  a  British  soldier  to 
us,  in  full  uniform.  By  some  means  he  found  we 
were  there,  and  he  professed  to  come  to  see  who  and 
what  we  were,  who  should  stop  travelling  on  the  Sab- 
bath. We  learned  from  him  that  he,  with  a  few 
comrades,  were  stationed  near  by,  to  look  out  for 
and  catch  any  runaway  soldiers  who  were  making 
for  the  "  States "  through  the  wilderness,  and  we 
partly  suspected  that  his  visit  to  us  had  some  such 
object  in  view.  He  was  a  Scotchman,  well  educat- 
ed, shrewd,  strong-minded,  and  a  religious  man.  I 
asked  him  how  it  was  that  he  could  be  trusted  away 
there  alone,  when  it  would  be  so  easy  for  him  to  run 
away  ? 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  character  is  as  valuable  in  the 
army  as  anywhere  else.  Besides,  I  have  a  wife  and 
children  at  the  garrison  at  Quebec  ! " 

"  Do  you  go  to  church  when  at  Quebec  ?  " 

"  No  sir,  but  always  to  kirk." 

"  How  are  your  children  educated  ?  " 

"  We  have  a  free  school  'for  the  children  of  each 
regiment." 

"  What  do  you  do  for  Bibles  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  depository  of  Bibles  printed  by  the 
British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society,  where  we  can 
buy  a  new  Bible  for  eighteen  pence "  (thirty-six 
cents). 

"  That 's  good.  Do  you  often  think  of  auld  Scot- 
land ? " 

"  Very  often  indeed,  sir." 
21* 


246  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  Well,  you  know  that  one  of  her  great  lights  has 
just  been  extinguished  ?  " 

"  Your  honor  is  referring  to  Chalmers,  I  'm  a  think- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  —  and  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  That  he  was  the  light  of  Scotland,  sir." 

After  considerable  conversation  with  this  intelli- 
gent man,  I  turned  suddenly  to  him  and  said,  "  Pray 
tell  me  how  a  good  man  and  a  Christian  can  be  a 
soldier  ?  You  are  bound  to  execute  any  command 
of  your  officer,  to  break  any  command  of  God,  if 
he  bids  you,  even  if  the  command  be  to  crucify  the 
Son  of  God  ?  And  how  can  you  reconcile  it  to  your 
conscience  to  make  it  your  professed  and  only  busi- 
ness to  shed  human  Wood,  and  that,  too,  your  business 
for  life  ?  " 

"  Does  your  honor  believe  that  human  govern- 
ments are  of  divine  appointment  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  do." 

"  If  a  human  government  is  to  stand,  it  must  have 
a  right  to  fall  back  on  arms  to  support  its  laws,  —  is 
not  this  so  ?  " 

"  I  grant  that  too." 

"  Very  well,  if  that  government  may  fall  back 
on  arms  if  its  laws  are  resisted,  then  it  is  lawful 
and  right  for  somebody  to  carry  and  use  arms,  is  it 
not  ?  " 

"  I  see  you  are  trying  to  corner  me,  while  you  are 
trying  to  prove  that  you  are  merely  a  sort  of  police. 
But  don't  dodge  the  question.  Suppose  your  officer 
should  command  you  to  do  what  you  knew  was 


VALLEY   OF   THE   DTI  LOTTP.  247 

wrong,  —  say,  put  the  Son  of  God  to  death,  —  then 
what  is  your  course  ?  " 

"  I  must  obey  God  and  my  conscience,  and  take 
the  consequences." 

An  interesting  man,  and  I  could  not  but  feel,  from 
this  first  and  last  interview,  that  he  would  be  one  of 
the  many  who  are  the  soldiers  of  Jesus  Christ. 

During  the  night  following,  after  our  camp-fire  had 
burned  down,  we  heard  a  true  Irish  voice  calling  to 
us, —  "Shentlemen!  Shentlemen  !  "  (No  answer.) 
"  An'  ba  ye  all  dead  intirely  ?  Why  don't  ye  spake  ? " 
But  we  had  no  particular  desire  for  nearer  acquaint- 
ance, and  so  we  let  him  scream  and  pass  on  without 
finding  us. 

Monday  morning  early,  having,  at  the  only  house 
in  the  region,  procured  a  horse  and  cart,  we  pushed 
on  fifteen  miles,  to  "  Armstrong's,"  the  last  human 
dwelling  before  entering  the  wilderness.  But  it  was 
so  filthy,  that,  leaving  much  of  our  baggage  there, 
we  now  put  on  our  woods  dress,  and  put  into  the  wil- 
derness. We  knew  that  a  party  of  wild  Indians  had 
lately  passed  along  here,  and  that,  by  following  their 
trail  seven  miles  into  the  woods,  we  should  find 
them.  Our  guides  took  most  of  our  luggage,  and 
we  set  out.  All  the  day  we  followed  their  footprints, 
and  every  now  and  then  we  saw  the  footprints  of 
a  little  child,  a  moccasoned  foot !  And  we  were 
curious  to  see  the"  owner  of  that  little  foot.  On 
and  on  we  went,  —  but  what  a  walk !  It  seemed 
as  if  the  seven  miles  had  become  three  times  that 
number. 


248  SUMMER   GLEAKINGS. 

Almost  dead  with  fatigue,  just  at  night  we  came 
up  to  them.  They  were  encamped  on  the  hill,  from 
which  every  thing  had  been  burned  except  the  rocks. 
Here  were  their  wigwams,  of  spruce  bark.  They 
were  several  families  of  the  Abenaquis  tribe,  old 
men  and  old  women,  brides  and  bridegrooms,  girls 
and  boys.  They  had  been  out  hunting  for  eighteen 
months,  as  we  understood  them.  But  oh !  how 
poor  !  their  clothing  little  except  blankets,  their 
shoes  were  the  skin  off  the  moose's  shank,  undressed, 
drawn  on  and  fitted  just  as  taken  from  the  animal. 
They  had  neither  bread,  salt,  pork,  nor  any  thing  but 
the  moose-meat,  which  hung  up  in  the  smoke  near 
them  in  great  profusion.  There  was  one  white  lad, 
about  eighteen,  trying  to  become  an  Indian,  with  a 
face  stupid  and  stolid ;  but  him  they  evidently  consid- 
ered a  drudge.  The  Indians  were  sitting  around  on 
the  rocks  smoking  when  we  came  up  to  them.  But 
the  first  sight  was  revolting,  and  all  the  romance  of 
the  wild  sons  of  the  forest  melted  away  in  looking  at 
bare  heads,  and  necks,  and  shoulders,  legs  and  feet, 
—  the  form  dwarfed,  and  bronzed  with  smoke  and 
dirt.  As  to  the  little  moccasoned  foot !  He  was  a 
naked  little  imp,  sitting  on  a  rock  alone,  with  a  face 
without  the  expression  of  thought,  and  eating  the 
large  marrow  from  the  thigh  bone  of  the  moose, 
nearly  raw,  without  any  condiment  or  other  food.  I 
never  before  saw  so  many  countenances  utterly  blank 
and  void.  I  understood  that  not  one  could  read  or 
write.  They  gave  us  no  greeting  or  welcome,  but 
kindly  offered  us  some  fresh  moose,  for  which  we 
gave  them  some  crackers. 


HEAD   WATERS    OF    THE    PENOBSCOT.  249 

We  now  pitched  our  tent  away  from  them  in  the 
woods,  in  order  to  lay  and  execute  our  future  plans. 
Should  we  return  home  the  same  way  we  came,  or 
should  we  push  through  the  wilderness,  and  come  out 
on  the  eastern  shores  of  Maine  ?  In  the  mean  time 
we  gave  thanks  to  God  for  the  blessings  of  civilized 
life,  without  any  desire  to  enjoy  the  beauties  and 
luxuries  of  these  children  of  nature. 


HEAD  WATERS  OF  THE   PENOBSCOT. 

THE  morning  at  last  broke,  but  I  was  too  unwell 
to  proceed,  and  my  companion  and  guides  were  very 
patient  in  waiting  for  me.  Near  by  was  a  beaver- 
house,  at  the  foot  of  a  small  pond.  It  was  in  the 
shape  of  a  handsome  hay-stack,  though  much  small- 
er. The  animal  first  cuts  down  young  trees  (with 
his  teeth  of  course),  and  then  cuts  sticks  off  about 
two  and  a  half  or  three  feet  long,  and  about  as  large 
as  the  arm  of  a  man.  These  sticks  are  laid  up  so  as 
to  make  the  house  octagonal  or  eight-sided,  and  laid 
up  just  as  children  build  a  "  cob-house."  But  they  are 
all  of  the  same  length  and  size.  Then  with  his  tail 
he  plasters  his  house  inside  and  out,  so  as  to  make  it 
perfectly  round.  This  is  done  with  mud,  and  the 
sticks  are  all  covered  and  concealed.  Then  he  has 
it  divided  into  rooms,  —  one  below  the  water,  in  which 
he  keeps  his  birch-bark,  &c.,  for  winter  food.  The 
second  apartment  is  up  out  of  water,  where  he  sleeps 


250  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

high  and  dry.  But  lest  the  waters  should  rise  in  the 
melting  of  the  spring  snows,  he  has  a  third  room 
higher  up  still,  where  he  is  always  dry.  It  would  be 
very  difficult  for  any  architect  to  make  proportions 
more  perfect,  or  a  dome  more  beautiful.  We  were 
greatly  interested  in  the  habits  of  these  animals,  and 
the  wonders  of  their  instincts.  A  single  beaver  has 
been  followed  more  than  sixty  miles  in  the  wilderness, 
and  finally  caught  by  the  more  shrewd  hunter.  This 
beaver  followed  up  a  river,  and  then  passed  through 
a  ten-mile  lake,  and  then  up  a  second  river  forty 
miles.  But  whenever  he  came  to  a  brook  that  emp- 
tied into  his  travelling  river,  he  would  stop,  cut  off 
sticks,  and  leave  them  just  above  the  brook,  to  show 
that  he  had  gone  past  the  brook.  But  if  he  turned 
into  the  brook,  he  would  leave  his  sticks  just  below 
the  brook,  to  show  that  he  had  turned  in  there.  This 
was  to  communicate,  not  with  the  keen  hunter,  but 
any  beaver  that  might  wish  to  follow  him.  Thus 
the  very  precision  of  his  instincts  makes  him  a  prey 
to  the  stronger  sagacity  of  man. 

After  the  recovery  of  strength  sufficient  to  walk, 
for  which  I  hope  I  returned  unfeigned  thanks  to  God, 
we  resumed  our  tramp,  and  when  we  struck  the 
Penobscot  we  found  it  a  powerful,  rapid,  and  danger- 
ous river.  But  the  Indians  would  run  their  canoes 
down  rapids  that  were  perfectly  frightful.  Some- 
times we  would  get  out  and  clamber  around  the  huge 
rocks,  and  look  with  admiration  upon  Pamah,  as  the 
old  man  on  his  knees  in  the  middle  of  his  frail  ca- 
noe would  dash  down  falls  that  made  one  shudder  to 


HEAD  WATERS  OF  THE  PENOBSCOT.     251 

think  of  going  down.  Sometimes  his  canoe  would 
rush  down  among  the  rocks,  whirl  round,  and  leap 
like  a  thing  of  life,  but  whirling  or  leaping,  spuming 
or  rushing,  Pamah  never  for  a  moment  let  it  get  out 
of  his  control.  He  would  whirl  and  turn  round  as 
quick  as  a  cat. 

And  now  we  began  to  be  short  of  provisions,  and 
there  was  no  way  but  to  take  the  life  of  a  moose. 
A  moose  is  the  largest  species  of  deer,  a  beautiful 
and  a  homely,  a  graceful  and  an  awkward  creature. 
He  is  very  large  and  tall,  and  will  weigh,  frequently, 
a  thousand  pounds.  Suppose  you  were  to  take  the 
round  body  of  a  beautiful  horse,  cut  his  tail  off  short, 
give  him  the  slender  and  beautiful  legs  of  the  deer, 
put  an  ass's  head  on  a  camel's  neck,  and  on  that 
head  a  pair  of  horns  that  will  sometimes  weigh  nine- 
ty pounds,  and  extend  six  feet,  each  horn,  and  then 
paint  him  black  as  night,  and  you  have  a  pretty  good 
moose.  He  will  sometimes  be  eight  feet  high.  The 
way  we  got  them  was  this.  In  the  darkest  part  of 
the  short  nights  —  for,  so  far  north,  the  twilight  of 
evening  and  the  dawn  of  morning  seemed  to  meet 
within  about  two  hours  —  you  take  your  seat  in  the 
bow  of  the  canoe.  The  Indian  sits  at  the  other  end 
with  his  paddle,  which  he  moves  noiselessly,  without 
ever  taking  it  out  of  the  water.  The  mosquitos, 
the  gnats,  and  the  midges  now  come  down  upon  you 
with  a  vengeance  and  a  power  that  is  unspeakable. 
You  may  brush,  and  rub,  and  turn,  but  there  they 
are,  myriads  and  myriads.  Off  you  go  over  the  beau- 
tiful Penobscot,  over  which  the  stars,  and  bright  au- 


252  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

rora  borealis,  and  the  graceful  weeping  elms  and 
maples  are  hanging  and  watching. 

Presently  you  hear  a  moose  thrash  like  a  huge  ox, 
and  then  he  blows  like  a  whale ;  that  is,  he  goes  into 
the  river  where  the  water  is  perhaps  seven  or  eight 
feet  deep,  and,  thrusting  his  head  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  river,  he  eats  the  long  grass  that  grows  there, 
and  when  his  mouth  is  full,  or  when  he  must  breathe, 
he  raises  his  head  up  out  of  the  water  and  blows  and 
snorts.  When  you  first  hear  him,  he  is,  perhaps,  two 
miles  off.  Silently  the  Indian  shoots  the  canoe  to- 
wards him.  As  you  come  near  him,  you  begin  to  trem- 
ble, and  to  forget  the  biting  of  the  insects,  and  think 
only  of  the  great  game  before  you.  Slowly  now  the 
canoe  goes  towards  him,  keeping  near  the  bank  of 
the  river  and  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  trees.  As  you 
approach  the  moose,  you  see  a  huge  black  something, 
without  shape  or  form,  —  only  it  is  the  blackest  thing 
to  be  seen.  Which  way  he  stands,  or  where  his 
head  is,  you  cannot  even  guess.  The  Indian  now 
gently  shakes  the  canoe,  to  let  you  know  that  he  shall 
go  no  nearer.  The  black  spot  seems  a  great  way  off. 
You  raise  your  rifle  and  guess  as  well  as  you  can, 
and  the  fire  leaps  from  the  weapon  of  death,  and  the 
moose  will  probably  be  found  within  twenty  rods  of 
the  spot,  the  next  morning.  It  seemed  cruel  to  kill 
so  large  a  creature  for  food  for  four  men  ;  but  as  to 
the  cruelty  and  suffering,  there  is  more  suffering  in 
a  load  of  starving,  bleating  calves,  which  goes  down 
the  Hudson  every  night,  than  in  killing  a  dozen  moose 
every  day.  We  killed  but  a  few,  and  the  skins  (we 


HEAD    WATERS    OF   THE    PENOBSCOT.  253 

gave  them  to  our  poor  guides)  were  worth  four  dollars 
the  skin.  I  found  that  the  moose  had  no  need  to  fear 
me  or  my  rifle,  for  my  companion  never  drew  a  trig- 
ger without  killing. 

The  meat  is  very  lean,  juicy,  and  tender.  We 
found  it  best  fried  in  our  short-handled  frying-pan ; 
but  the  Indians  preferred  it  roasted  on  sticks  over  a 
hot  fire.  I  forgot  to  say  that  in  the  summer  the  ani- 
mal is  jet  black,  hair  soft  and  glossy.  The  Indians 
roast  the  shanks  and  legs,  and  get  out  the  large  mar- 
row and  eat  it  with  great  avidity.  It  is  the  only  but- 
ter or  oil  they  can  get,  and  the  civilized  man  can 
hardly  jmagine  how  the  human  system  craves  oil, — 
especially  in  a  cold  climate.  I  never  saw  men,  at 
the  daintiest  turtle  soup,  eat  with  a  greater  relish,  than 
did  our  guides  when  they  had  a  pile  of  "  marrow- 
bones "  before  them.  But "  the  moose's  upper  lip," — 
that  is  considered  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  all  eating,  by 
those  who  are  great  judges  in  such  matters.  I  have 
never  heard  any  food  —  not  even  the  beaver's  tail  — 
so  highly  commended  as  this.  It  is  unlike  any  thing 
I  ever  tasted.  But  whether  it  was  because  I  was  un- 
well, or  because  my  taste  needed  cultivation,  I  do  not 
know ;  but  though  we  had  the  upper  lip  many  times, 
I  never  tasted  it  but  once. 

Here  on  the  Penobscot,  in  the  very  wilds  of  nature, 
we  found  "  Peter  Mountain,"  an  aged  Indian,  living 
alone  with  his  beautiful  dog,  "  Watch,"  in  a  very  fil- 
thy wigwam.  He  was  a  short  chuck  of  a  fellow, 
with  long,  coarse,  grisly  hair,  like  a  moose's  mane, 
with  no  covering  to  his  head,  a  flannel  shirt  and 
22 


254  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

coarse  trousers  for  his  clothing.  He  was  very  deaf, 
mostly  blind,  and  a  half-ludicrous,  half-hideous  crea- 
ture. He  had  been  in  the  service  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company  for  seven  years,  —  had  been  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  in  every  great  forest  in  the 
land.  He  was  quick,  agile,  and  powerful  in  body. 
He  joined  himself  to  us,  and  helped  us,  simply  for 
company  and  board,  —  and  a  hard  bargain  we  should 
have  had  at  that,  if  we  had  had  to  buy  our  provisions  ; 
for  the  amount  which  the  three  Indians  ate  was  in- 
credible. They  would  get  our  supper,  see  us  eat, 
then  begin  to  roast,  eat,  and  talk  in  their  tongue,  and 
often  the  next  morning  would  dawn  before  they  got 
through  supper.  Fashionable  people,  who  turn  day 
into  night,  and  night  into  day,  have  only  reached  the 
spot  in  refinement  at  which  the  savage  has  always 
been.  In  the  night  he  eats  and  hunts,  and  in  the  day 
sleeps.  Our  guides  were,  however,  faithful,  attentive, 
and  I  never  intimated  a  wish  to  Pamah  but  he  made 
me  to  realize  it,  if  within  the  bounds  of  possibility. 
It  was  difficult  to  make  them  understand  sacred 
truths,  —  in  religion  especially.  When  we  tried  to 
press  the  conscience  with  religious  truth,  they  would 
parry  it  by  saying,  "  Me  no  think "  (don't  under- 
stand it),  or,  "  Indian  know  that  already."  They 
were  very  great  talkers  with  each  other,  and  very 
cheerful  and  buoyant  in  their  stories. 


TWO  THIRDS  HIS  VALUE. 


"  Do  you  know  of  a  man  worth  six  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year,  and  whom  the  good  people  of can 

get  for  four  hundred  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is  brother  H.,  the  very  man,  fully 
worth  six  hundred,  and  I  think  you  can  get  him  for 
four." 

Such  was  the  question  which  my  friend  put  to  me, 
and  such  was  the  answer  I  gave  him.  He  went  in 
pursuit  of  the  minister,  and  I  went  to  commune  with 
my  conscience.  I  knew  that  brother  H.  had  been 
settled  a  few  years,  —  a  most  faithful  and  valuable 
minister,- — that  he  had  been  dismissed  on  account 
of  poor  health,  greatly  to  the  regret  of  his  flock,  — 
that  he  had  a  family,  and  must  go  to  work  somewhere 
as  soon  as  possible.  I  knew,  by  mentioning  him  in 
these  circumstances,  I  had  virtually  given  my  sanc- 
tion to  the  bargain.  Had  I  done  right  ?  I  put  it  in  • 
another  shape. 

Suppose  a  man  comes  to  me  and  says,  "  I  am  in 
want  of  a  good  ox  ;  one  that  will  mate  mine,  one  that 


256  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

will  draw  well,  one  that  won't  fret  under  the  yoke, 
one  that  will  do  much  work  on  little  fodder.  In  short, 
sir,  I  want  an  ox  worth  one  hundred  dollars.  Do  you 
know  of  some  poor  man  who  has  such  an  ox,  and 
which  I  can  get  for  sixty-six  dollars  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know  just  the  man  and  the  ox.  He  is 
kind,  well-broken,  of  a  good  disposition,  and  a  great 
worker ;  and  as  the  man  has  lost  his  mate,  and  as  he 
is  poor  and  can't  afford  to  keep  this  ox  on  hand,  I 
think  you  can  get  him  for  sixty-six  dollars." 

I  put  it  in  another  shape.  Suppose  an  incorpo- 
rated company  should  come  to  me  by  their  agent  and 
say,— 

"Sir,  we  want  to  put  a  factory  in  motion,  and  we 
want  a  stream  to  turn  the  wheel.  Do  you  know  of  a 
stream  that  has  the  necessary  power,  which  never 
dries  up,  which  never  runs  low,  and  which  will  do 
all  that  we  want,  —  a  water-power  that  is  worth  a 
thousand  dollars,  but  which  some  poor  man  would 
sell  for  two  thirds  of  that  amount  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have  a  brother  who  has  been  unfortu- 
nate, and  had  his  mill  burned,  and  had  a  family  on 
his  hands,  and  he  must  do  something.  I  think  his 
necessities  are  such,  that  he  will  be  glad  to  sell  for 
less  than  two  thirds  of  what  every  body  knows  his 
water-power  is  worth." 

I  turned  over  the  question  once  more,  and  said  to 
myself,  suppose  Esquire  Cooks  comes  to  you  and 
says,  — 

"  Neighbor  E.,  you  know  my  family  is  getting 
larger  and  more  respectable,  and  though  we  have 


TWO    THIRDS    HIS   VALUE.  257 

hitherto  walked,  yet  I  think  it  high  time  that  we  have 
something  in  the  shape  of  a  carriage.  Do  you  know 
of  some  one  who  has  a  carriage  worth  about  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars,  —  not  less,  —  which  I  can  buy 
for  one  hundred  ?  " 

"  O,  yes,  sir,  there  is  my  poor  friend,  who  has  a 
large  family,  and  who  has  got  a  fine  carriage  that  he 
might  carry  them  —  old  grandmother  and  all  —  to 
meeting  on  the  Sabbath  ;  but  unfortunately,  he  lost  his 
horses  last  winter,  and  can't  buy  more,  and  I  think  he 
would  sell  his  carriage  for  two  thirds  its  value." 

Now,  on  thinking  it  over  and  over  again,  it  came 
to  pass  that  there  was  a  dialogue  between  me  and  my 
conscience,  and  it  was  on  this  wise. 

Conscience.  "  Have  you  done  just  right  in  send- 
ing your  friend  after  Mr.  H.,  as  you  have  just  done  ? " 

Myself.  "  Why  not  ?  They  want  a  minister,  and 
he  wants  to  be  settled.  He  is  an  excellent  man,  and 
will  do  good,  I  doubt  not." 

Conscience.  "  Do  you  really  think  his  services 
worth  six  hundred  dollars  ?  " 

Myself.  "Indeed,  I  verily  do.  Would  I  say  so 
if  I  did  n't  ?  " 

Conscience.  "  You  doubtless  understand  that  your 
friend  believes  you  think  him  justified  in  getting  a 
man  for  two  thirds  of  his  value.  And  you  doubtless 
understand  that  he  will  tell  Mr.  H.  that  you  men- 
tioned his  name,  and  therefore  that  you  are  aiding 
to  cheapen  his  services  down  to  two  thirds  their  val- 
ue !" 

Myself.  "  Now,  my  good  friend  conscience,  you 
22* 


258  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

are  too  hard  upon  me.  Is  n't  it  better  that  a  minister 
should  settle  on  four  hundred  dollars  than  starve  ?  " 

Conscience,  "  Would  you  help  a  man  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  another  and  obtain  an  ox  in  this  way  ?  " 

Myself.  "  No,  indeed  !  But  what  could  I  have 
done  ?  " 

Conscience.  "  Done  ?  Why  told  your  friend  that 
though  that  people  might  obtain  that  good  man  for 
two  thirds  his  value,  because  of  his  necessities,  yet  it 
is  wrong,  and  you  cannot  aid  in  doing  it.  You  say 
you  would  not  have  done  so  in  cheapening  an  ox. 
You  would  have  said,  '  This  ox  is  worth  one  hundred 
dollars,  and  you  ought  to  give  that  for  it,  and  not  take 
advantage  of  the  situation  of  the  owner.'  Why  did 
you  not  say  so  in  this  case  ?  " 

Myself.  "  Well,  to  speak  plainly,  I  did  n't  think 
of  7«'m,  I  only  acted  for  and  thought  of  the  people 
who  wanted  a  good  minister.  But,  dear  conscience, 
your  mill  always  grinds  too  hard.  You  don't  suppose 
that  every  minister  in  the  world  is  to  receive  just  what 
he  is  worth,  do  you  ?  " 

Conscience.  "  No,  but  I  ought  not  to  expect  that 
you  will  aid  and  abet  in  selling  a  brother  for  two 
thirds  of  his  value." 

Myself.  "  O  dear !  just  let  me  off  this  time,  and 
I  will  try  never  to  do  so  again." 

So  conscience  went  to  look  after  something  else, 
and  I  sat  down  to  muse.  So  my  thoughts  came  along 
in  their  succession.  I  am  not  sure  that  conscience 
was  not  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood,  for  they  had 
a  kind  of  chastened  appearance,  as  if  they  had  been 


TWO   THIRDS   HIS   VALUE.  259 

to  school  to  that  old  gentleman,  and  had  heard  his 
teachings. 

"  So,  then,"  —  thus  ran  my  musings,  —  "  so,  then, 
brother  H.  will  go  there  and  be  settled.  He  will  be 
expected  to  live  in  a  house  of  such  a  character  that 
they  won't  be  ashamed  of  their  minister's  house,  or 
his  'furniture  and  general  style  of  living,  and  all 
for  four  hundred  dollars  a  year.  His  parish  is  a 
farming  one  and  scattered,  and  he  must  keep  a  horse  ; 
and  then  he  must  educate  his  children,  it  's  all  they 
can  ever  have  from  him,  and  all  for  four  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year.  Then  he  must  be  given  to  hospitality, 
ready  to  entertain  all  comers,  or  else  he  is  not  the 
Bishop  of  the  New  Testament.  He  must  be  first  and 
foremost  in  all  charities,  and  show  himself  a  pattern 
to  his  people,  and  all  for  four  hundred  a  year.  He 
will  want  books  and  papers,  and  thus  keep  up  with 
the  times  and  with  the  world,  —  and  how  can  he  do 
it  all  on  four  hundred  dollars  ?  " 

Well,  where  's  the  comfort,  in  all  this  ?  Why,  if 
the  good  brother  can't  live  on  it,  he  has  talents  and 
education  and  skill  enough,  he  can  leave  the  minis- 
try and  go  into  some  other  business.  Just  as  the 
good  people  of  Virginia  are  said  once  to  have  con- 
cluded to  debar  ministers  of  the  Gospel  from  the 
right  to  go  to  the  ballot-box ;  and  wrote  to  Wither- 
spoon,  to  ask  that  wise  man  what  he  thought  of  it  ? 
He  replied,  with  great  gravity,  that  he  thought  it 
right,  and  that  ministers  would  not  complain,  for,  if 
they  wanted  to  vote,  all  they  had  to  do  was  to  com- 
mit some  crime,  and  be  deposed  from  the  ministry, 


260  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

and  then  they  could  go  to  the  ballot-box  !  So,  if  min- 
isters don't  choose  to  starve,  they  can  leave  the  min- 
istry and  go  into  some  other  business. 

After  all,  neither  the  dialogue  with  the  conscience, 
nor  the  after  musings  have  done  much  to  upbuild 
self-complacency  ;  but  perhaps  I  have  allowed  my- 
self to  be  unnecessarily  depressed,  and  perhaps  it  is 
right  to  help  a  people  to  get  a  good  minister  as  cheap 
as  possible,  —  and  if  you  think  so,  do  just  drop  me 
a  line,  and  say  you  have  no  manner  of  doubt  of  it. 
It  will  be  popular  too  ;  who  can  tell  ? 


OLD    SABAEL,-THE   INDIAN   OF  A 
CENTURY. 


As  the  traveller  leaves  Lake  George  and  goes 
north,  he  finds  the  country  very  hilly  and  rough,  the 
population  few  and  scattered,  and  every  thing  having 
an  air  of  wildness.  Following  the  lordly  Hudson 
upward,  he  arrives  at  a  point  where  the  townships 
are  called  No.  12,  13,  14,  &c.,  instead  of  having 
names,  and  where  the  road  stops.  Beyond  this,  far 
into  the  wilderness,  the  enterprising  lumberman  has 
penetrated,  and  all  along  the  river  are  seen  scattered 
saw  logs,  whose  birthplace  was  far  up  among  the 
wilds,  and  which  were  left  the  last  spring,  —  the  true 
log-driving  season,  —  on  their  way  down  to  the  place 
where  the  saw-mill  is  ready  to  destroy  their  shape 
for  ever.  At  one  place,  far,  far  up  the  Hudson,  we 
found  a  nest  of  magnificent  logs,  which  were  stranded 
there  the  last  spring  by  the  sudden  fall  of  the  water. 
They  completely  choked  up  the  river,  piled  up  and 
wedged  up  from  four  to  eight  feet  high,  completely 
filling  the  river,  and  that  for  more  than  a  mile  in 


262  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

length.  From  the  point  where  the  road  seems  to 
stop,  is  a  path  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  through  the 
woods  to  Indian  Lake,  and  through  this,  summer  or 
winter,  it  is  the  best  way  to  walk,  having  your  lug- 
gage carried  on  a  sled  by  oxen.  This  we  found  the 
best  way  even  in  summer.  The  miles  are  marked 
on  trees,  but  they  seem  fearfully  long.  At  the  end 
of  this  terribly  rough  path  you  come  to  Indian  Lake, 
—  a  long,  wild,  and  not  a  very  pleasant  lake, — 
emptying  into  Indian  River,  and  thence  into  the 
Hudson. 

Indian  Lake  received  its  name  from  an  old  Indian 
who  came  to  it  many  years  ago,  bringing  an  only 
son,  and  who  have  lived  there  in  their  rude  wigwam 
up  to  the  present  time.  The  old  man's  name  is  Sa- 
bael ;  born  on  the  Penobscot,  more  than  a  century 
ago,  and  afterwards  joining  the  Canada  Abenaquis 
Indians.  When,  in  our  last  war  with  Great  Britain, 
the  Abenaquis  were  induced  to  fight  against  the  Unit- 
ed States,  he,  being  a  Penobscot,  left  his  tribe,  and 
relinquished  the  yearly  stipend  which  the  Canada  In- 
dians receive  from  the  British  government,  and  came 
off  through  the  wilderness,  and  settled  on  this  lonely 
lake.  At  that  time  the  country  was  well  stocked 
with  moose,  beaver,  otters,  and  deer.  The  two  for- 
mer are  mostly  gone,  while  the  deer,  the  otter,  and 
the  bear,  remain  in  abundance. 

This  old  Indian  was  in  the  battle  at  Quebec,  when 
Wolfe  fell  and  the  city  was  taken.  His  father  was 
a  kind  of  chief  or  brave,  and  he  was  his  father's 
cook.  He  knows  that  he  was  then  twelve  years  old. 


OLD  SABAEL.  263 

The  battle  took  place  in  1759,  consequently  he  must 
now  be  a  hundred  and  one  years  old.  He  speaks 
the  English  language,  but  not  fluently.  His  son 
"  Lige "  (contraction  for  Elijah)  is  towards  sixty 
years  old.  He  was  our  guide  in  the  wilderness,  as 
he  was  also  of  Professor  Emmons,  when  making  his 
geological  survey  of  the  State,  —  a  faithful,  good- 
hearted  Indian,  kind,  gentle,  and  true,  —  a  real  In- 
dian, however.  They  keep  a  pretty  black  horse,  for 
which  they  have,  and  can  have,  ho  possible  use,  and 
four  hungry  dogs,  of  which  Warn-pa-ye-tah  (White- 
foot)  seemed  to  be  the  favorite.  We  asked  old  Sa- 
bael  if  he  could  see.  "  Me  shoot  so  better  as  my 
son  "  ;  i.  e.  he  could  still  beat  his  son  with  the  gun. 
He  is  straight,  and  a  powerful  man ;  unable  to  read 
or  write,  a  poor,  ignorant  Catholic  in  religion,  and 
his  knowledge  is  bounded  by  his  experience  in  hunt- 
ing. Even  now  he  will  take  his  canoe,  and  gun,  and 
traps,  and  go  off  alone,  six  weeks  at  a  time,  on  a 
hunting  expedition.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  never 
afraid  while  thus  alone.  His  answer  was,  "  Me 
sometimes  'fraid  of  Chepi  (ghosts),  and  once  'fraid 
bear.  Me  go  into  great  cave,  —  all  dark,  —  no  gun, 
—  creep  in  and  look  round,  and  great  bear  stand 
right  up  on  his  hind  legs  and  growl  at  me.  Then 
my  flesh  feel  cold,  —  say  nothing,  —  creep  back 
slow,  - —  get  out  quick  as  can.  Then  me  set  birch- 
bark  fire,  throw  him  in,  see  bear,  point  in  gun  and 
shoot.  Bear  growl  and  stop,  and  then  dead." 

"  But  are  you  never  afraid  of  the  panthers  which 
are  in  this  wilderness  ?  " 


264  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

"  No,  me  no  'fraid  ;  government  no  more  belong 
to  beast." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Sabael." 

"  Me  tell  you  what  Indian  say  "  ;  (i.  e.  an  Indian 
tradition.)  "  Once  time,  long  ago,  wild  beasts  all 
come  together  to  make  government.  When  get 
there,  lion  say,  *  I  be  government ;"  I  strongest.' 
Then  all  beasts  say  nothing  ;  all  'fraid.  Then  wolf 
say,  '  I  know  one  stronger  than  you.'  '  Who  he  ?  ' 
say  lion.  '  His  name  man,  and  he  stronger  as  you,' 
say  wolf.  '  Me  don't  'fraid  of  him  ;  be  government 
still.  Let  me  see  him.'  '  Come  'long  with  me,'  say 
wolf.  So  wolf  lead  him  'way  through  woods,  long 
way,  and  tell  him  to  sit  down  by  this  path,  and  by- 
by  see  man  coming  'long.  So  lion  sit  down  great 
while,  and  then  see  little  child  coming,  and  he  speak 
out,  '  You  man  ?  '  '  No  ;  shall  be  one  day.'  Then 
see  old  man  coming  on  staff  very  slow,  and  he 
cry  out,  '  You  man  ?  '  *  No  ;  was  once  ;  aint  now  ; 
never  shall  be  again.'  By  and  by  see  one  riding 
on  horse,  look  like  devil,  and  lion  speak  out,  '  You 
man  ?  '  '  Yes.'  '  You  government  ?  '  '  Yes.'  '  No, 
no  ;  me  government.'  So  lion  spring  at  him,  and 
man  take  one  hees  ribs  and  strike  him  (sword), 
and  make  him  bleed.  Then  he  spit  at  him  (pistol), 
and  wound  him  bad.  Lion  very  sick,  creep  back  to 
woods  ;  no  government  any  more.  Men  government 
ever  since,  and  me  never  'fraid  to  be  all  alone  in  the 
woods." 

The  wigwam  of  Sabael  is  about  as  uncomfortable 
as  a  dwelling  could  well  be  ;  the  furniture  a  few  deer- 


OLD  SABAEL.  265 

skins,  a  pot,  spider,  frying-pan,  and  the  like.  No 
floor,  no  table,  chair,  or  bed  ;  but  there,  on  the  bare 
ground,  he  sits,  eats,  and  sleeps,  in  summer  and  in 
winter.  He  told  us  he  had  discovered  two  silver 
mines  (probably  micaceous  rocks),  but  he  could  not 
find  them.  Last  year  he  spent  more  than  a  month 
in  trying  to  find  one  of  them,  but  to  no  purpose.  He 
hopes  yet  to  do  so,  and  thinks  they  will  yield  him 
thousands  of  dollars.  What  would  the  human  heart 
do  without  something  to  hope  for  ?  He  says  he  first 
discovered  the  valuable  iron  mine  at  Keeseville,  and 
sold  the  knowledge  of  it  to  a  white  man  for  a  bushel 
of  corn,  and  a  dollar  in  money.  He  is  a  bigoted 
Catholic,  though  he  has  not  seen  a  priest  for  many 
years.  He  has  a  string  of  beads,  which  a  priest  gave 
him  many  years  ago,  and  which  he  superstitiously 
regards  as  possessing  great  virtue. 

"  What  use  are  they,  Sabael  ?  " 

"  Spose  me  out  on  lake,  wind  blow  hard,  lake  all 
too  high  for  canoe  ;  me  drop  one  bead  into  lake,  all 
calm  and  still  in  moment.  Spose  me  in  woods, 
thunder  bang  strike  tree,  me  'fraid  ;  hang  these  upon 
limb  of  tree,  thunder  all  go  'way,  no  hurt  me.  Spose 
woods  full  of  Chepi  (ghosts),  take  these  beads  out, 
all  Chepi  run  'way." 

And  yet  he  dared  not  say  he  had  ever  seen  any 
such  miracle  performed  by  using  his  beads.  His  son 
is  a  Protestant,  so  far  as  he  has  any  religious  views, 
and,  when  he  is  out  of  the  reach  of  ardent  spirits,  is 
a  charming  man.  But  neither  has  the  power  to,  re- 
sist on  this  point,  when  tempted. 


266  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

Poor  old  Sabael !  I  had  heard  much  of  him,  but 
never  expected  to  see  him  ;  a  forest  tree  more  than  a 
century  old.  He  will  soon  be  no  more.  But  of  what 
use  is  such  a  life,  or  scores  of  such,  to  the  world 
or  to  the  possessor  ?  How  poor  a  creature  is  man, 
though  he  live  to  be  one  hundred  years  old,  if  he 
lives  not  under  the  light,  the  hopes,  the  motives,  and 
the  influences  of  the  gospel  ?  With  these,  the  little 
child  may  die  a  hundred  years  old,  and  without 
them,  the  man  of  a  century  of  years  is  less  than  a 
child. 


MEN'S   RIGHTS. 


You  are  aware  that  the  ladies,  dear  souls,  have 
just  been  holding  a  most  important  Convention  at 
Worcester,  at  which  they  had  resolutions,  speeches, 
addresses,  and  appeals  (no  prayers)  in  abundance. 
There  were  eloquence,  wit,  sharp  and  pointed  re- 
buke, and  thrilling  disclosures  of  unsuspected  facts, 
from  Abby  Folsom,  Garrison,  et  omne  id  genus,  all 
on  the  subject  of  Woman's  Rights.  There  was  a 
Rev.  Miss,  besides  doctoresses  and  the  like,  and  they 
seemed  to  unite  in  one  deep  lamentation  over  the 
wrongs,  oppressions,  and  slavery  of  woman  in  these 
United  States.  I  read  the  newspapers  containing 
full  reports  of  this  Convention,  and  rubbed  my  eyes, 
trying  to  get  them  wide  open,  for  I  had  hitherto  sup- 
posed that  the  ladies  of  this  country  were  held  in 
high  esteem,  and  were  treated  so  tenderly  that  they 
had  no  wish  to  complain.  Alas !  alas !  I  find  they 
are  bowed  down,  and  trampled  on,  and  there  is  not 
one  drop  of  misery  in  the  most  galling  slavery  that 
our  ladies  have  not  tasted ;  —  not  one  word  in  the 


268  SUMMER    GLEANINGS. 

recital  of  the  wrongs  of  Egyptian  bondage,  that  can- 
not apply  to  them.  So  they  tell  us !  Well,  I  sat 
and  thought  it  over,  till  my  soul  was  moved,  and 
with  sorrow  I  thought  what  a  cruel  creature  I  had 
been,  all  my  life,  to  my  wife,  daughters,  and  sisters. 
To  be  sure,  I  have  always  given  my  poor  earnings 
into  my  wife's  hands  to  spend  for  the  family,  —  be- 
cause I  knew  she  could  do  it  better  than  I ;  and  I 
have  given  my  daughters  the  best  education  possible, 
and  far  better  than  I  had,  —  but  what  then  ?  Are 
they  not  oppressed  ?  Don't  they  have  to  use  a  side- 
saddle, and  I  don't  ?  Don't  they  have  to  carry  a  muff, 
and  sit  under  the  buffalo,  in  a  cold  day,  and  I  have 
the  privilege  of  driving  ?  When  the  snow  is  deep, 
don't  they  have  to  wait  till  I  can  dig  paths  ? 

Ah  me  !  And  is  there  nothing  to  be  said  on  the 
other  side  ?  Suppose  we  carry  the  war  into  the  ene- 
my's camp  a  little,  and  speak  of  our  sufferings  and 
grievances.  Can  we  not  excite  sympathy,  if  we 
speak  of  our  unredressed  wrongs  ?  Now  I  propose 
to  call  a  Man's  Convention  in  some  important  place, 
say  Matildatown,  and  to  have  a  meeting  of  the 
greatest  and  best,  the  wisest  and  the  boldest,  and 
see  if  we  can't  emancipate  ourselves  from  this 
thraldom.  What  do  I  propose  ?  What  a  question  ! 
Why,  sir,  I  would  have  a  cavalcade  of  butchers  as 
long  as  Maiden  Lane,  and  I  would  let  them  tell  how 
they  have  been  compelled  to  do  the  dirty,  disagree- 
able work  of  killing  calves  and  pigs,  sheep  and  ox- 
en, and  then  dressing  and  cutting  and  carrying 
them  to  the  door,  and  feeling  very  thankful  if  dear 


MEN  S    RIGHTS.  Zbtf 

woman  would  just  come  out  to  the  cart,  and  point 
with  her  jewelled  finger  at  the  piece  she  would  like 
for  the  table  ! 

I  would  have  a  long  line  of  coal-diggers  come  up 
from  -  the  deep  mines  where  they  live,  two  miles 
from  daylight,  and  never  seeing  the  heavens  but 
once  a  week  ;  and  they  should  come  with  their  little 
lamps  in  their  caps,  and  all  covered  with  coal-dust ! 
No,  they  would  not  come,  —  they  could  n't  be  spared 
long  enough.  But  they  should  send  up  their  story 
of  wrong  and  oppressions,  and  tell  the  Convention 
how  no  woman  ever  came  there  with  pickaxe  and 
blasting-powder.  What  heart  in  the  assembly,  es- 
pecially what  female  heart,  could  remain  unmoved, 
when  the  voice  came  from  those  dreary  subterranean 
caverns,  and  when  the  buried  cried  out  against  the 
wrongs  imposed  on  my  sex.  There  are,  it  is  said, 
three  millions  of  men  constantly  on  the  deep,  as  sail- 
ors, standing  at  the  helm,  working  the  pump,  climb- 
ing the  shrouds,  wet  and  cold  in  the  storm,  clinging 
to  the  wreck,  going  down  to  watery  graves,  —  and 
for  what  ?  Why,  that  our  dear  ones  may  have  their 
silks,  their  shawls,  their  laces,  their  china,  and  their 
perfumes  !  It  is  estimated  that  fifty  thousand  men, 
every  year,  are  buried  in  the  mighty  deep.  O  wom- 
an, woman,  what  do  ye  mean  ?  Why  are  you  not 
hanging  on  the  swinging  yards,  climbing  the  mast, 
and  facing  these  hardships  and  dangers  ?  I  do  pro-  , 
test  against  the  slavery  to  which  ye  have  sunk  my 
kind ! 

And  the  Convention  should  be  electrified  by  the 
23* 


270  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

eloquence  of  men  who  fill  our  streets,  who  bear  bur- 
dens, who  carry  all  the  brick  and  mortar  to  build 
the  fine  houses,  who  are  obliged  to  handle  pork  and 
tobacco,  train-oil  and  sugar,  molasses  and  codfish, 
who  are  all  day  long  confined  in  dusty,  close  count- 
ing-rooms, and  exhausting  life  and  strength  over  blot- 
ted account-books,  who  in  lonely  church-yards  must 
dig  graves,  and  work  with  no  company  save  the 
mouldering  dead.  Are  we  not  compelled,  early  and 
late,  to  do  the  hardest,  vilest,  filthiest  work  that  hu- 
man beings  ever  performed  ?  What  a  story  of 
wrong  could  we  not  tell  ?  When  I  come  down  to 
your  great  city,  I  can't  get  a  seat  in  the  cars,  till 
the  ladies  are  provided  for,  and  that,  too,  next  to  the 
window.  I  can't  get  a  seat  at  the  table,  at  the  hotel 
or  in  the  steamboat,  till  the  ladies  are  seated  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  where  I  understand  the  greatest 
delicacies  are  placed.  And  if  any  body  has  to  wait 
for  the  second  table,  and  eat  fragments,  it 's  not  a 
lady.  If  a  gentleman  has  a  seat  in  the  cars,  and  a 
lady  comes  in,  and  wants  it,  though  he  were  Mel- 
chisedek  himself,  he  must  give  it  up  cheerfully. 
Ah  !  and  who  feeds  the  iron  horse,  and  makes  the 
cars  go  ?  Who  lights  the  street-lamps,  brushes 
boots,  colors  your  hats,  and  pounds  down  the  stones 
in  the  street  ?  O  men !  men !  poor  men  !  my  soul 
yearns  over  you,  and  longs  for  your  deliverance ! 
Do  you  not  see  that  it 's  the  women  who  keep  you 
down  to  these  ignoble  toils,  and  who  snuff  out  the 
very  light  of  your  existence  ?  Do  you  not  see  that, 
if  they  would  only  come  and  help  us,  and  lift  off  our 


MEN'S  RIGHTS.  271 

burden,  we  may  be  free  !  I  used  to  think  —  foolish 
me  !  —  I  used  to  think  that  the  Bible  made  us  to  be 
the  protectors  of  women,  and  that  thus  the  strong 
were  to  bear  the  infirmities  of  the  weak,  and  that  we 
could  not  fulfil  the  designs  of  Providence  without 
doing  all  this  hard  drudgery,  and  exempting  our 
feebler  sisters  from  it :  but  since  I  've  read  the  re- 
port of  the  Worcester  Convention,  I  have  learned 
that  Paul  was  "  an  old  bachelor,"  and  "  partook  of 
the  prejudices  of  the  times,"  and  that  man  was  not 
designed  to  be  "  the  head  of  the  woman."  I  knew 
it  was  disagreeable  to  be  surgeons,  and  amputate 
arms  and  legs,  and  cut  out  tumors,  and  sew  up 
wounds,  but  I  had  no  idea  that  the  ladies  were  long- 
ing to  cut  and  saw  too.  I  knew  that  our  lawyers 
were  a  kind  of  civil  police  to  keep  the  community 
quiet,  and  aided,  as  a  chimney,  to  carry  off  the 
smoke  of  society,  but  I  had  no  idea  that  our  ladies 
were  grieved  that  they  were  not  chimneys  too !  I 
knew  that  our  clergymen  must  be  poor,  and  work 
hard,  and  be  "  fools  for  Christ's  sake,"  but  I  did  n't 
know  that  women  wanted  to  become  fools  too !  In 
short,  I  see  things  in  a  new  and  strange  light,  and 
I  am  all  awake  for  having  a  Men's  Rights  Con- 
vention. 


DEDICATION  OF  OUR  NEW  CEMETERY. 


WE  have  just  returned  from  dedicating  our  new 
Cemetery.  It  is  of  very  great  extent.  Solemn 
woods,  sunny  lawns,  pleasant  hills  and  dales,  and 
a  singing  stream,  which,  stopping  once  in  its  course, 
forms  a  beautiful  little  lakelet,  —  all  are  found  in 
our  chosen  resting-place  for  the  dead.  Miles  of 
smooth  carriage-road  wind  among  the  hillocks  and 
trees,  and  as  the  stranger  rides  now  in  sunlight  and 
now  in  shade,  he  confesses  that  no  expense  has  been 
spared,  and  that  it  is  an  honor  to  the  town.  But 
the  Dedication.  The  morning  was  beautifully  clear, 
and,  as  the  thousands  gathered  to  move  in  procession, 
no  banner  or  martial  music  disturbed  the  solemnity 
of  the  occasion.  The  bell  tolling,  a  single  bass-drum 
beating  time  to  our  footsteps,  the  procession,  a  mile 
in  length,  went  forward  to  the  grounds.  In  one  of 
the  beautiful  groves,  and  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  the 
seats  and  the  platform  were  arranged,  and  at  least 
three  thousand  sat  down  in  silence.  The  exercises 
consisted  of  prayer,  reading  the  Scriptures,  singing, 


DEDICATION    OF    OUR    NEW   CEMETERY.          273 

addresses,  and  a  sweet  poem  from  a  most  gifted 
mind,  —  Dr.  Holmes.  We  seemed  to  be  standing 
between  the  living  and  the  dead, 

We  were  drawn  back  to  the  past  and  connected 
with  our  fathers ;  for  we  are  to  remove,  as  far  as 
possible,  all  the  dead  who  have  been  buried  in  this 
town  since  its  first  settlement,  and  lay  their  bones 
here,  to  be  disturbed  no  more,  we  trust,  till  the  resur- 
rection day. 

We  were  solemn,  for  we  seemed  to  be  looking 
into  our  own  graves  ;  for  though  it  is  now  "  a  new 
sepulchre  wherein  never  man  was  yet  laid,"  yet  we 
knew  that  the  first  graves  would  soon  be  opened,  and 
that  beneath  these  lofty  trees  our  own  dust  must  short- 
ly sleep.  We  were  connected  with  the  future,  for 
we  knew  that  it  will  be  at  least  two  hundred,  perhaps 
five  hundred  years,  before  the  dead  will  again  call 
for  more  room.  We  were  doing  what  will  not  be 
again  done  here  for  centuries,  and  here  the  dust  of 
our  children  and  of  our  posterity  is  to  be  gathered. 
And  we  thought  how  we  should  then  be  centuries 
old  ourselves,  and  through  how  many  strange  scenes 
of  thinking,  feeling,  hoping,  fearing,  suffering,  and 
enjoying,  we  should  pass  ere  that  day  comes. 

The  great  congregation  that  assembled  to-day  is 
but  a  small  part  of  that  which  shall  be  gathered  in 
the  future.  We  felt  that  this  will  be  the  place,  not 
merely  where  the  dead  shall  rest  in  silence  and  in 
peace,  but  it  will  be  the  spot  where  affection  would 
pour  out  her  tears,  where  sorrow  would  mingle  her 
sighs  with  the  moanings  of  the  trees,  and  where  the 


274  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

heart,  coming  here  alone,  will  commune  as  it  were 
with  the  love-born  spirits  who  have  left  them,  and  will 
lift  up  its  prayer  to  Him  who  will  one  day  destroy 
death,  and  shut  up  the  grave  for  eve'r.  We  seemed, 
too,  to  take  hold  of  a  chain  that  drew  us  back  to  glo- 
rious Abraham,  who  bought  the  first  sepulchre  of 
which  we  read,  and  took  the  first  deed  of  land  which 
is  recorded. 

How  much  hath  Jesus  Christ  done  to  make  the 
burial-place  light,  and  hopeful,  ]p.nd  beautiful !  The 
old  Greeks,  who  could  only  long  for  immortality,  for 
they  never  could  assure  themselves  of  it,  called  the 
graveyard  (Polyandron)  the  place  of  many  men,  — 
the  gathering-place ;  but  in  later  days  the  Christians 
called  it  (Koimeterlon]  the  sleeping-place.  And  we 
know  that  Christ  himself  was  buried,  —  in  a  garden, 
—  as  if  to  sanction  our  adorning  the  place  of  the 
dead  ;  and  that,  though  doubt  and  infidelity  may  look 
into  the  grave  and  see  nothing  but  darkness  and 
gloom,  and  shudderingly  may  call  death  an  eternal 
sleep,  Christ  lifts  up  the  pall  that  hangs  over  it,  and 
shows  us  only  a  sleeping-place  where  the  soul  chan- 
ges her  earthly  dress  for  the  garments  of  immortal- 
ity. To  the  trembling  soul,  who,  through  fear  of 
death,  is  all  "  lifetime  subject  to  bondage,"  the  angel 
of  hope  says,  pointing  to  the  grave,  "  Come,  see 
the  place  where  the  Lord  lay." 

"  Thy  Saviour  hath  passed  through  its  portals  before  thee, 
And  the  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide  through  the  gloom." 

And  he  hath  sweetened  and  blessed  our  homes,  hath 


DEDICATION    OF    OUR   NEW    CEMETERY.        275 

bound  the  hearts  there  together  in  love,  and  thus 
hath  made  the  grave  more  pleasant,  because  the  af- 
fections which  cluster  around  it  are  not  the  coarse 
affections  of  the  savage,  or  the  deadened  feelings  of 
unbelief,  but  the  love  of  hearts  that  mourned  and 
rejoiced  together,  and  which  hope  to  be  reunited  in 
a  world  where  there  are  no  graves.  He  promises 
to  come  and  awaken  and  raise  every  sleeper,  and 
to  destroy  the  last  enemy.  The  death  of  his  saints, 
though  terrible  and  forbidding,  is  precious  in  his 
sight.  And  thus,  over  the  most  fearful  spot  upon 
which  we  are  ever  called  to  look,  —  the  spot  where 
we  are  to  lie  till  the  resurrection  day,  —  has  Christ 
thrown  the  moral  grandeur  of  Hope,  of  Expectation, 
of  Desire,  and  of  Certainty. 

From  every  part  of  such  a  Cemetery  will  a  mys- 
terious influence  go  forth  upon  the  living,  and  when 
busy  feet  shall  tread  these  winding  paths,  the  merry 
whistle  and  laugh  will  be  hushed,  and  the  lights  and 
shadows  under  these  lofty  trees  will  speak  to  the 
heart  of  the  moral  light  and  shade  which  fall  on  these 
graves. 

It  was  a  solemn  reflection,  too,  that  time  will  con- 
tinue to  consecrate  these  grounds,  till  they  are  all 
filled  up.  It  will  be  centuries  ere  that  time  comes, 
but  oh !  when  the  last  coffin  is  brought  here,  and 
the  last  grave  is  dug,  how  consecrated  and  sacred 
will  the  spot  be  ! 

Most  of  the  hushed  multitudes  present  looked 
upon  it  as  the  place  where,  probably,  their  dust  will 
rest  till  the  last  great  day,  —  when  the  dead,  small 


276  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

and  great,  shall  stand  before  God,  and  these  grounds 
be  covered  with  the  watting,  anxious  multitudes ! 

The  mountains  and  hills  will  then  be  standing  here 
hardly  changed,  save  that  the  beautiful  valley  will 
then  be  filled  with  living  men ;  and  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  the  hill-sides  and  mountain-tops  cov- 
ered with  the  living,  who  were  looking  down  to  see 
the  vast  congregation  of  the  risen  dead  in  these 
grounds,  and  they,  like  us,  about  to  be  openly  judged, 
and  to  enter  upon  a  state  of  never-ending  progres- 
sion, —  in  light  or  darkness. 

Slowly  we  returned  from  the  spot,  —  one  of  the 
most  solemn  on  which  I  ever  stood,  —  the  place  was 
holy.  Scarcely  a  smile  was  seen  upon  any  face, 
and  the  impression  I  received  was,  that  this  great 
congregation  believe  the  Bible,  — they  connect  Time 
with  Eternity ;  they  know  that  they  must  die,  and 
that  after  death  is  the  judgment. 


DISCOVERIES  NEW  AND  INTERESTING. 


WHEN  the  Bible  predicts  that  "  the  old  heavens 
and  the  old  earth  "  shall  pass  away,  some  wise  com- 
mentators teach  us,  that  it  means  that  old  notions 
and  old  theories  shall  pass  away  and  be  forgotten  ! 
And  if  this  interpretation  be  correct,  if  we  have  not 
lived  to  see  "  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth," 
we  at  least  see  the  chaos  out  of  which  they  are 
to  emerge.  Almost  every  week  startles  us  with 
some  new  discovery  in  science,  or  in  the  mental 
world,  till  at  last  it  takes  a  great  deal  to  startle  us. 
One  of  the  most  recent  of  these  is,  that  the  old  no- 
tion that  death  has  a  sting,  and  is  the  king  of  ter- 
rors, is  exploded,  —  that  the  separation  of  the  soul 
and  body,  so  far  from  being  dreadful,  is  a  very  easy 
affair,  and  the  sensations  are,  on  the  whole,  most 
pleasurable.  A  soft  slumber,  when  the  mind  and 
body  are  in  perfect  health,  is  nothing  to  it.  All  our 
talk  and  notions  about  "  the  pangs  of  death"  are 
false,  and  belong  to  the  darkness  which  the  light  of 
science  is  sure  to  dispel.  We  have  it  demonstrat- 
24 


278  SUMMER  GLEANINGS. 

ed  that  drowning  is  perfectly  delightful.  The  man 
lies  in  the  water,  and  rainbows  hang  over  him,  and 
the  most  beautiful  visions  break  in  upon  him,  and 
so  far  from  struggling,  and  catching,  and  clutching 
at  straws,  sea-weed,  sand,  or  any  thing  else,  all  he 
has  to  do  is  to  lie  still  and  enjoy  it.  As  these  things 
are  said  gravely  and  with  wisdom,  —  or,  at  least, 
with  the  claim  to  wisdom,  —  we  trust  they  will  afford 
great  relief  to  the  anti-capital-punishment  people,  — 
that  those  who  have  shuddered  at  the  unsophisti- 
cated cruelty  of  hanging  the  murderer  will  cease 
to  shudder.  We  hope,  too,  that  these  new  views  will 
not  become  so  prevalent  and  so  woven  into  our  no- 
tions, that  all  classes  will  rush  into  suicide  to  enjoy 
the  pleasures  of  hanging,  and  that  our  children  will 
not  begin  to  hang  one  another,  because  their  teachers 
can  demonstrate  how  thrilling  must  be  the  sensation. 
We  should  regret  to  have  it  become  fashionable. 
But  seriously,  we  are  sorry  to  have  such  views  cir- 
culated, because  we  believe  them  to  be  untrue,  and 
because,  were  they  to  prevail,  their  effects  would  be 
injurious.  We  appeal  both  to  the  Bible  and  to  ex- 
perience. 

We  have  entirely  mistaken  the  Scriptures,  if  they 
do  not  by  design  make  the  impression  that  death  is 
one  of  the  penalties  of  sin,  —  the  strong  and  the 
decided  mark  which  God  has  fixed  upon  our  race,  as 
a  token  of  his  abhorrence  of  sin.  All  the  imagery 
of  the  Bible  goes  to  make  the  impression  that  dying 
is,  and  must  be,  a  most  fearful  event.  And  when  he 
would  represent  the  loss  of  the  soul,  even  "  everlast- 


DISCOVERIES    NEW  AND   INTERESTING.          279 

ing  destruction,"  God  borrows  the  image  of  death 
to  represent  it, —  calling  it  "the  second  death." 
The  strongest  instincts  of  our  nature  are  arrayed 
against  it,  and  the  region  and  shadow  of  death  is  a 
gloomy  region,  as  well  in  the  days  of  Job  as  in  these 
last  days.  One  of  the  joys  of  heaven  is,  "  Neither 
do  they  die  any  more."  Death  is  the  strongest  and 
the  deepest  nftirk  which  God  has  made  in  this  world 
of  his  disapprobation  of  sin.  The  "  bitterness  of 
death  "  was  no  more  bitter  to  Agag,  than  to  all  who 
are  called  to  taste  it ;  and  we  must  get  rid  of  the 
impressions  which  the  Scriptures  everywhere  make 
upon  us,  before  we  can  receive  these  new  notions. 

Then  we  appeal  to  experience.  Ministers  of  the 
Gospel  will  not  readily  be  made  to  believe  that,  in 
ordinary  cases,  the  pangs  of  death  are  not,  as  they 
were  designed  to  be,  fearful ;  especially  if  they  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  sick  and  the  dying. 
We  can  recall  the  face,  and  almost  the  voice,  of  a 
woman  whose  dying  shrieks  filled  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood, and  which  were  continued  up  to  the  very 
instant  of  dissolution.  We  can  recall  a  second, 
when  the  agonies  of  death  were  such  as  almost  to 
start  the  eyeballs  from  the  sockets;  another,  in 
which  the  dying  one  seized  the  physician,  and,  with 
an  eye  and  a  look  speaking  unutterable  agony,  be- 
sought him  to  aid  him ;  and  another,  when  it  took 
four  strong  men  to  hold  the  poor  fellow  down  on  the 
bed,  while  death  was  doing  his  work.  Almost  every 
one  can  call  up  such  cases,  —  some  of  whom  gave 
the  best  evidence  of  piety  and  of  being  prepared  to 


280  SUMMER   GLEANINGS. 

meet  death.  And  who  has  not  gazed  at  the  corpse 
immediately  after  the  agonies  of  death  were  over, 
and  seen  in  the  distortion  of  the  face,  in  the  position 
of  the  eyeballs,  in  the  clenching  of  the  fists,  and  in 
the  whole  appearance,  evidence  enough  that  there 
had  been  "  pangs,"  "  sorrows,"  and  agonies  too 
great  to  be  described  ?  It  does  ndt  relieve  us  to  tell 
us  that  the  sufferer  is  no  sufferer,  inalbuch  as  he  is 
unconscious  of  suffering,  —  for  this  can  never  be 
proved.  Does  it  follow  that  the  patient,  sick  with  a 
fever,  parched,  rolling,  tossing,  groaning,  and  it  may 
be  shrieking,  suffers  not,  because  when  he  recovers 
he  cannot  recall  his  sufferings  ? 

In  no  sense  would  we  speak  lightly  or  triflingly  of 
that  solemn  event,  the  dissolution  of  the  body  and 
the  departure  of  the  soul.  Doubtless  its  solemnity 
arises  chiefly  from  the  fact  that  after  death  cometh 
the  judgment;  but  aside  from  that,  we  have  no  doubt 
but  that  God  intended  it  to  be  emphatically  the  mark 
of  his  displeasure  against  sin ;  the  valley  and  the 
shadow  of  death  to  be  fearful.  The  Gospel  mitigates 
the  sufferings  and  the  pangs  of  death,  not  by  telling 
us  there  are  no  pangs  and  there  are  no  sufferings  in 
dissolution,  but  by  giving  us  a  faith  that  lifts  us  above 
them.  The  Christian  can  die  with  a  smile  often, 
and  with  triumph  even  at  the  stake,  —  not  because 
the  fire  has  lost  its  power  to  produce  agony,  and  not 
because  martyrdom  is  not  full  of  pains,  but  because 
there  is  so  much  of  hope  and  faith  in  the  soul,  that 
she  can  partially  forget  her  sufferings.  Whether  the 
human  body  and  soul  be  torn  asunder  by  the  violence 


DISCOVERIES   NEW  AND   INTERESTING.         281 

of  crucifixion  or  of  disease,  we  have  no  idea  that  the 
house  is  to  be  taken  down,  in  ordinary  cases,  without 
much  and  decided  suffering.  That  disease  may 
sometimes  benumb  the  sensibilities,  so  that  the  whole 
system  may  be  unconscious  of  suffering,  as  chloro- 
form will  render  men  unconscious,  we  do  not  doubt ; 
but  these,  we  have  no  doubt,  are  exceptions ;  and 
the  man  who  wants  to  die  easy  must  not  draw  his 
hope  of  doing  so  from  the  theories  on  which  we  are 
commenting,  but  from  the  faith  and  the  hopes  of 
the  glorious  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  We  dare  not 
tell  our  friends,  or  say  to  ourselves,  that  death  is  terri- 
ble only  in  imagination,  and  that  the  severing  of  soul 
and  body  is  only  as  the  quiet,  unconscious  sleep  of 
health ;  but  we  may  say  that  Christ  can  take  away 
the  sting  of  death,  and  the  victory  of  the  grave,  and 
that  he  can  deliver  those  who  were  all  their  lifetime 
subject  to  bondage  through  fear  of  death.  We 
may  take  away  the  fears  and  terrors  of  the  solem- 
nities of  death,  not  by  asserting  that  the  sensations 
of  death  are  easy  or  pleasurable,  which  we  believe 
to  be  far  from  the  truth,  but  by  laying  hold  on  our 
great  Deliverer  and  Captain  of  our  salvation. 


THE    END. 


VALUABLE  BOOKS, 

PUBLISHED    AND    FOR    SALE    BY 

IIOFKI.YS,  BRIDGE  AI¥,  &  CO., 

Northampton,  Mass. 


THE  POWER  OF  CHRISTIAN  BENEVOLENCE; 
illustrated  in  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Mary  Lyon. 
12mb.  486  pages. 

"  This  piece  of  biography  is  more  precious  than  rubies.  It  is  the 
memoir  of  a  woman  of  extraordinary  mental  power  and  solid  ac- 
quisitions of  learning,  combined  with  the  purest  and  most  active 
piety,  disinterestedness,  benevolence,  self-denial,  and  wisdom."  — 
Northampton  Courier. 

"  We  have  devoted  every  leisure  moment  since  the  memoir  was 
handed  to  us  to  its  perusal,  and  it  has  instructed  us  so  much  that  we 
have  laid  it  down  with  great  reluctance  when  compelled  by  business 
to  do  so.  A  treat  of  no  ordinary  character  is  in  store  for  such  as 
possess  themselves  of  this  work,  and  we  affirm  without  hesitation 
that  no  true  New  England  household  ought  to  be  without  it."  — 
Hampshire  Gazette. 

"  As  Miss  Lyon's  character  was  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  re- 
markable that  adorn  our  age,  or  any  age,  I  shall  confidently  expect 
that  her  biography  will  be  a  volume  of  corresponding  interest  and 
value,  through  which,  though  dead,  she  will  effectually  speak  for 
ages  to  come."  —  Dr.  J.  Perkins,  Ooroomiah. 


"  We  enter  heartily  into  the  spirit  of  the  work,  sympathizing  in 
the  enthusiastic  love  betrayed  in  every  comment  upon  the  charac- 
ter, labors,  trials,  and  triumphs  of  one  of  the  noblest  of  all  New 
England's  daughters.  That  it  will  be  widely  purchased  and  widely 
read  there  is  no  doubt,  and  it  possesses  a  double  value  in  giving  the 
history  of  an  institution  peculiar  and  original  in  its  features,  which 
has  had,'  and  is  still  to  have,  an  important  influence  in  shaping  the 
educational  systems  of  the  country."  —  Springfield  Republican. 


INDEX  RERUM;  or  Index  of  Subjects,  intended  as  a 
Manual  to  aid  the  Student  and  the  Professional  Man  in 
preparing  himself  for  Usefulness.  With  an  Introduction, 
illustrating  its  Utility  and  Method  of  Use.  By  Rev.  JOHN 
TODD.  The  plan  of  this  work  is  very  simple,  and  so 
exceedingly  well  adapted  to  the  purpose  for  which  it  is 
intended  that  it  has  received  the  approbation  of  all  who 
have  examined  it. 

"  It  is  just  the  thing.  I  have  never  had  a  system  so  complete  as 
yours.  I  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  to  speak  to  the  whole  body 
of  students  in  regard  to  it,  and  shall  advise  every  man  to  buy  a 
copy."  —  From  Professor  Worcester,  of  Amherst  College. 

"  I  am  happy  to  say  that  the  plan  and  execution  of  the  Index 
Rerum  are  both  such  as  will  fully  meet  my  approbation ;  and  I 
shall  recommend  it  to  my  pupils  as  a  valuable  auxiliary  to  their 
studies."  —  From  Professor  Olmsted,  of  Yale  College. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  the  plan  of  the  Index  Re- 
rum,  by  Mr.  Todd,  is  better  adapted  to  the  object  for  which  it  is 
intended  than  any  other  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  Its  great 
excellence  consists  in  its  simplicity,  and  this  renders  its  advantages 
so  obvious,  that  to  those  who  want  any  thing  of  the  kind  an  inspec- 
tion of  the  work  must  preclude  the  necessity  of  any  recommenda- 
tion. It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  speak  well  of  it  here."  —  From 
President  M.  Hopkins,  of  Williams  College. 

"I  fully  concur  in  the  favorable  opinion  expressed  of  the  simple 
arrangement  and  utility  of  the  Index  Rerum. 

«  GEORGE  BANCROFT." 


"  Of  the  necessity  of  something  of  the  kind  to  hold  fast  the  thou- 
sand important  facts  and  sentiments  which  refuse  to  be  detained  by 
the  slight  associations  of  the  moment,  I  have  been  fully,  painfully 
sensible.  A  few  years  ago,  I  adopted  the  plan  recommended  by 
Locke,  but  soon  relinquished  it,  as  requiring  too  much  time  and 
labor.  I  subsequently  purchased  the  Cambridge  Theological  Com- 
mon Place  Book,  but  here  I  found  myself  embarrassed  by  a  printed 
index  of  subjects  designed  only  for  professional  reading.  And  it  is 
only  in  the  plan  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Todd's  work  that  I  find  an  arrange- 
ment exactly  suited  to  the  wants  of  the  professional  and  literary  man." 
—  From  Professor  M.  P.  Jewett,  of  Marietta  College,  Ohio. 


THE  STUDENT'S  MANUAL;  designed,  by  specific 
Directions,  to  aid  in  forming  and  strengthening  the  intel- 
lectual and  moral  Character  and  Habits  of  the  Student. 
By  Rev.  JOHN  TODD. 

"I  thank  you  very  cordially  for  your  STUDENT'S  MANUAL.  I  have 
not  found  time  yet  to  read  it  through  ;  but  I  have  read  a  number 
of  chapters,  and  highly  approve  of  both  the  design  and  execution. 
It  cannot  fail  to  do  good.  It  will  attract  by  its  manly  independence 
of  tone,  as  well  as  by  the  sparkling  brilliancy  of  its  thoughts. 
Macte  virtute !  Persevere  in  your  own  advice,  and  it  cannot  be 
that  you  will  not  reap  a  bountiful  harvest."  —  From  Professor  Stuart, 
to  the  Author. 

"We  do  not  often  meet  with  a  book  which  contains  a  greater 
amount  of  sound  counsel  and  honest  sense  than  this."  —  Knicker- 
bocker. 

"  This  book  is  just  what  the  title  intimates.  It  supplies  a  vacancy 
which  no  other  work  has  filled.  It  discusses  a  great  variety  of  sub- 
jects, and  all  with  ease,  energy,  and  practical  sagacity.  No  student 
should  fail  to  possess  it  and  to  use  it  as  a  manual.  We  recommend 
it  to  all  young  men  who  are  concerned  to  cultivate  their  minds  and 
to  be  respectable  and  happy  in  life." —  Recorder,  Philadelphia. 

"  In  our  opinion,  Mr.  Todd  has  thrown  together  some  of  the  best 
practical  lessons  for  students,  or  for  young  men  generally,  that  we 
have  ever  seen  embodied  in  a  single  work."  —  U.  S.  Gazette,  Phila- 
delphia. 


««  We  have  looked  through  this  volume  with  more  than  ordinary 
care,  and  certainly  with  more  than  ordinary  interest.  Every  stu- 
dent has  felt  the  need  of  a  friend,  willing  and  able  to  instruct  him 
on  the  thousand  questions  which  arise  in  relation  to  his  course  of 
studies,  time  of  labor  and  exercise,  his  health,  diet,  discipline  of 
mind,  &c.  It  will  be  found  a  pleasing  volume,  its  lessons  being 
always  conveyed  in  an  easy  and  attractive  style,  and  urged  by  fa- 
miliar historical  or  other  illustrations."  —  Philadelphia,  Gazette* 


LECTURES    TO    CHILDREN;     familiarly    illustrating 
important  Truth.     By  Rev.  JOHN  TODD. 

"  We  take  peculiar  pleasure  in  recommending  this  little  book  to 
our  youthful  readers  as  an  important  acquisition  to  the  juvenile 
literature  of  our  country.  The  author  has  succeeded  in  adapting 
his  style  to  those  for  whom  he  writes.  His  illustrations  are  so  sim- 
ple, that  we  think  they  cannot  fail  to  bring  his  subjects  down,  or 
rather,  to  carry  them  up,  to  the  comprehension  of  the  youngest 
reader.  The  style  of  this  book  is  somewhat  like  that  of  Abbott's 
works,  yet  abounding  more  in  anecdoticai  illustration,  and  evidently 
designed  for  the  youngest  readers.  The  author's  points  are  briefly 
and  simply  stated  ;  his  illustrations  attractive,  beautiful,  and  satis- 
factory."—  New  York  Evangelist. 

"This  book  is,  in  our  opinion,  written  m  the  right  style,  and  on 
the  right  principles  for  interesting  and  benefiting  children."  — 
Abbott's  Magazine. 

Extract  from  a  Letter.  —  "  In  begging  you  to  express  my  thanks 

to for  the  excellent  little  volume  of  '  Lectures  to  Children,'  I 

cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  the  great  delight,  and  I  hope  edifi- 
cation, with  which  my  daughter,  of  five  years  old,  peruses  them.  I 
have  kept  them  as  a  part  of  her  Sunday  reading,  because  they 

rued  such  fine  subjects  of  conversation  for  that  sacred  day.  But 
morning  she  comes  to  me,  and  says,  fervently,  '  Mother,  if  I  get 
all  my  lessons  perfectly,  may  I  read  one  of  Mr.  Todd's  sweet  ser- 
mons ? '  and  by  her  application  to  her  simple  tasks  in  geography, 
natural  history,  and  writing,  won  the  desired  reward.  Such  a  suf- 
frage from  a  simple-hearted  and  intelligent  little  one  weighs  more, 
in  my  opinion,  than  the  praise  of  practised  critics."  —  From  Mrs. 
Sigowney. 


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